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TO 


MRS. HERBERT TOWNSHEND BOWEN. 

# 

My Dear Friend, 

Independent of the personal feelings which urged the 
dedication of this unpretending volume to you, I know few 
to whom a story illustrative of a mother’s solemn responsi¬ 
bilities, intense anxiety to fulfil them, and deep sense of the 
Influence of Home, could, with more justice, be tendered. 
Simple as is the actual narrative, the sentiments it seeks to 
illustrate, are so associated with you — have been so strength¬ 
ened from the happy hours of unrestrained intercourse I 
have enjoyed with you — that, though I ought, perhaps, to 
have waited until I could haye offered a work of far supe¬ 
rior merit to a mind like yours, I felt as if no story of mine 
could more completely belong to you. Will you, then, par¬ 
don the unintentional errors which I fear you, as an earnest 

4 

Protestant, may discern, and accept this little work as a slight 
tribute of the warm affection and sincere esteem with which 
you have been so long regarded by 


Your truly attached Friend, 


# 


ns7 


Co 



GRACE AGUILAR. 





rzs 

■ f\z‘Z5 

V( L 





8y Transfer 


D. C. Public Library 


AUG 8 - 1932 








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- - c, 
** M 
n $ + '■' 















PREFACE. 


The following story will, the author trusts, suffi¬ 
ciently illustrate its title to require but few words in 
the way of preface. She is only anxious to impress two 
facts on the minds of her readers. The one — that 
having been brought before the public principally as 
the author of Jewish works, and as an explainer of the 
Hebrew Faith, some Christian mothers might fear that 
the present work has the same tendency, and hesitate 
to place it in the hands of their children. She there¬ 
fore begs to assure them, that as a simple domestic 
story, the characters in which are all Christians, believ¬ 
ing in and practising that religion, all doctrinal points 
have been most carefully avoided, the author seeking 
only to illustrate the spirit of true piety, and the virtues 
always designated as the Christian virtues thence pro¬ 
ceeding. Her sole aim, with regard to Religion, has 



VI 


PEEFACE. 


been to incite a train of serious and loving thought to¬ 
ward God and man, especially toward those with whom 
He has linked us in the precious ties of parent and 
child, brother and sister, master and pupil. 

The second point she is desirous to bring forward is 
her belief, that in childhood and youth the spoken senti¬ 
ment is one of the safest guides to individual character ; 
and that if, therefore, she have written more conversa¬ 
tion than may appear absolutely necessary for the elu¬ 
cidation of “ Home Influence,” or the interest of the 
narrative, it is from no wish to be diffuse, but merely to 
illustrate her own belief. Sentiment is the vehicle of 
thought, and thought the origin of action. Children 
and youth have very seldom the power to evince cha¬ 
racter by action, and scarcely if ever understand the 

» 

mystery of thought; and therefore their unrestrained 
conversation may often greatly aid parents and teachers 
in acquiring a correct idea of their natural disposition, 
and in giving hints for the mode of education each may 
demand. 

Leaving the beaten track of works written for the 
young, the author’s aim has been to assist in the educa¬ 
tion of the heart, believing that of infinitely greater 
importance than the mere instruction of the mind, for 
the bright awakening of the latter, depends far more on 
the happy influences of the former than is generally 
supposed. 


PREFACE. 


vii 


The moral of the following story the author acknow¬ 
ledges is addressed to mothers only, for on them so 
much of the responsibility of Home Influence devolves. 
On them, more than on any other, depends the well¬ 
doing and happiness, or the error and grief, not of 
childhood alone, but of the far more dangerous period 
of youth. A Preface is not the place to enter on their 
mission. The author’s only wish is, to aid by the 
thoughts, which in some young mothers, anxious and 
eager to perform their office, her story may excite. To 
daughters, also, she hopes it may not be found entirely 
useless, for on them rests so much of the happiness of 
home, in the simple thought of, and attention to those 
little things which so bless and invigorate domestic life. 
Opportunities to evince the more striking virtues wo¬ 
man may never have, but for the cultivation and per¬ 
formance of the lesser, they are called upon each day. 


Clapton, January , 1847. 







MEMOIR OF GRACE AGUILAR. 


\ 


Grace Aguilar was bom at Hackney, June 2d, 1816. 
She was the eldest child and only daughter of Emanuel 
Aguilar, one of those merchants descended from the 
Jews of Spain, who, almost within the memory of man, 
fled from persecution in that country, and sought and 
found an asylum in England. 

The delicate frame and feeble health observable in 
Grace Aguilar throughout her life displayed itself from 
infancy; from the^ age of three years, she was almost 
constantly under the care of some physician, and, by 
their advice, annually spending the summer months by 
the sea, in the hope of rousing and strengthening a 
naturally fragile constitution. This want of physical 
energy was, however, in direct contrast to her mental 
powers, which developed early and readily. She learn¬ 
ed to read with scarcely any trouble, and, when once 
that knowledge was gained,' her answer, when asked 
what she would like for a present, was, invariably, “ A 
book,” which was read, re-read, and preserved with a 
care remarkable in so young a child. With the excep- 



X 


MEMOIR OF GRACE AGUILAR. 


tion of eighteen months passed at school, her mother 
was her sole instructress, and both parents took equal 
delight in directing her studies and facilitating her per¬ 
sonal inspection of all that was curious and interesting 
in the various counties of England to which they re¬ 
sorted for her health. 

From the early age of seven she commenced keeping 
a journal, which was continued with scarce any inter¬ 
mission throughout her life. In 1825 she visited Oxford, 
Cheltenham, Gloucester, Worcester, Ross, and Bath; 
and though at that time but nine years old, her father 
took her to Gloucester and Worcester cathedrals, and 
also to see a porcelain and pin manufactory, &c., the 
attention and interest she displayed on these occasions 
affording convincing proof that her mind was alive to 
appreciate and enjoy what was thus presented to her 
observation. Before she had completed her twelfth 
year, she ventured to try her powers in composition, 
and wrote a little drama, called Gustavus Vasa, never 
published, and only here recorded as being the first 
germ of what was afterward to become the ruling pas¬ 
sion. 

In September, 1828, the family went to reside in 
Devonshire for the health of Mr. Aguilar, and there a 
strong admiration for the beauties and wonders of na¬ 
ture manifested itself: she constantly collected shells, 
stones, sea-weed, mosses, &c., in her daily rambles; 
and, not satisfied with admiring their beauty, sedu¬ 
lously procured whatever little catechisms or other 
books on those subjects she could purchase or borrow, 
eagerly endeavoring, by their study, to increase her 
knowledge of their nature and properties. 

When she had attained the age of fourteen, her father 


MEMOIR OF GRACE AGUILAR. 


Xi 


commenced a regular course of instruction for his child, 
by reading aloud while she was employed in drawing, 
needle-work, &c. History was selected, that being the 
study which now most interested her, and the first work 
chosen was Josephus. 

It was while spending a short time at Tavistock, in 
1830, that the beauty of the surrounding scenery led 
her to express her thoughts in verse. Several small 
pieces soon followed her first essay, and she became 
extremely fond of this new exercise and enjoyment of 
her opening powers, yet her mind was so well regulated 
that she never permitted *herself to indulge in original 
composition until her duties and her studies were all 
performed. 

Grace Aguilar was extremely fond of music ; she had 
learned the piano from infancy, and in 1831 commenced 
the harp. She sang pleasingly, preferring English songs, 
and invariably selecting them for the beauty or senti¬ 
ment of the words ; she was also passionately fond of 
dancing, and her cheerful, lively manners in the society 
of her young friends would scarcely have led any to 
imagine how deeply she felt and pondered upon the 
serious and solemn subjects which afterward formed the 
labor of her life. She seemed to enjoy all, to enter into 
all, but a keen observer would detect the hold that 
sacred and holy principle ever exercised over her lightest 
act and gayest hour. A sense of duty was apparent in 
the merest trifle, and her following out of the divine 
command of obedience to parents was only equalled by 
the unbounded affection she felt for them. A wish was 
once expressed by her mother that she should not waltz, 
and no solicitation could afterward tempt her. Her 
mother also required her to read sermons, and s|udy 


MEMOIR OF GRACE AGUILAR. 


x ii 

religion and the Bible regularly; this was readily sub¬ 
mitted to, first as a task, but afterward with much de¬ 
light ; for evidence of which we cannot do better than 
quote her own words, in one of her religious works : 

“ This formed into a habit, and persevered in for a 
life, would in time, and without labor or weariness, give 
the comfort and the knowledge that we seek ; each year 
it would become lighter and more blessed; each year 
we should discover something we knew not before, and, 
in the valley of the shadow of death, feel to our heart’s 
core that the Lord our God is Truth.” * 

Nor did Grace Aguilar only study religion for her own 
personal observance and profit. She embraced its prin¬ 
ciples (the principles of all creeds) in a widely-extended 
and truly liberal sense. She carried her practice of its 
holy and benevolent precepts into every minutiae of her 
daily life, doing all the good her limited means would 
allow, finding time in the midst of her own studies, and 
most varied and continual occupations, to work for and 
instruct her poor neighbors in the country, and, while 
steadily venerating and adhering to her own faith, nei¬ 
ther inquiring nor heeding the religious opinions of the 
needy whom she succored or consoled. To be permit¬ 
ted to help and comfort she considered a privilege and 
a pleasure ; she left the rest to God ; and thus, bestow¬ 
ing and receiving blessings and smiles from all who had 
the opportunity of knowing her, her young life flowed 
on in an almost uninterrupted stream of enjoyment, 
until she had completed her nineteenth year. 

Alas ! the scene was soon to change, and trials await¬ 
ed that spirit which, in the midst of sunshine, had so 


Women of Israel , vol, ii. p. 43. 


MEMOIR OF GRACE AGUILAR. • • xiii 

beautifully striven to prepare itself a shelter from the 
storm. The two brothers of Miss Aguilar, whom she 
tenderly loved, left the paternal roof to be placed far 
from their family at school. Her mother’s health neces¬ 
sitated a painful and dangerous operation; and from 
that time, for several years, alternate hopes and fears, 
through long and dreary watchings beside the sick-bed 
of that beloved mother, became the portion of her gifted 
child. But even this depressing and arduous change in 
the duties of her existence did not suspend her literary 
pursuits and labors. She profited by all the intervals 
she could command, and wrote the tale of the “ Martyr,” 
the “ Spirit of Judaism,” and “ Israel Defended,” the 
latter translated from the French, at the earnest request 
of a friend, and printed only for private circulation. 
The “ Magic Wreath,” a little poetical work, and the 
first our authoress ever published, dedicated to the 
Right Honorable the Countess of Munster, also ap¬ 
peared about this time. 

In the spring of 1835, Grace Aguilar was attacked 
with measles, and never afterward recovered her pre¬ 
vious state of health, suffering at intervals with such 
exhausting feelings of weakness as to become, without 
any visible disease, really alarming. 

The medical attendants recommended entire rest of 
mind and body; she visited the sea, and seemed a little 
revived, but anxieties were gathering around her horizon, 
to which it became evidently impossible her ardent and 
active mind could remain passive or indifferent, and 
which recalled every feeling, every energy of her im¬ 
pressible nature into action. Her elder brother, who 
had long chosen music as his profession, was sent to 
Germany to pursue his studies ; the younger determined 


XIV 


MEMOIR OF GRACE AGUILAR. 


upon entering the sea-service. The excitement of these 
changes, and the parting with both, was highly injurious 
to their affectionate sister; and her delight, a few months 
after, at welcoming the sailor boy returned from his 
first voyage, with all his tales of danger and adventure, 
and his keen enjoyment of the path of life he had chosen, 
together with her struggles to do her utmost to share 
his walks and companionship, contributed yet more to 
impair her inadequate strength. 

. The second parting was scarcely over ere her father, 
who had long shown symptoms of failing health, became 
the victim of consumption. He breathed his last in her 
arms ; and the daughter, while sorrowing over all she 
had lost, roused herself once more to the utmost, feeling 
that she was the sole comforter beside her remaining 
parent. Soon after, when her brother again returned, 
finding the death of his father, he resolved not to make 
his third voyage as a midshipman, but endeavor to pro-- 
cure some employment sufficiently lucrative to prevent 
his remaining a burden upon his widowed mother. 
Long and anxiously did he pursue this object, his sister, 
whose acquaintance with literary and talented persons 
had greatly increased, using all her energy and influence 
in his behalf, and concentrating all the enthusiastic feel¬ 
ings of her nature in inspiring him with patience, com- . 
fort, and hope, as often as they failed him under his 
repeated disappointments. At length his application 
was taken up by a powerful friend, for her sake ; she 
had the happiness of succeeding, and saw him depart 
at the very summit of his wishes. Repose, which had 
been so long necessary, seemed now at hand; but her 
nerves had been too long and too repeatedly overstrung, 
and when this task was done the worn and weary spirit 


MEMOIR OF GRACE AGUILAR. 


xv 


could sustain no more, and sank under the labor that 
had been imposed upon it. 

Severe illness followed ; and though it yielded, after 
a time, to skilful remedies and tender care, her exces¬ 
sive languor and severe headaches continued to give 
her family and friends great uneasiness. 

During all these demands upon her time, her thoughts, 
and her health, however, the ruling passion neither 
slumbered nor slept. She completed the Jewish Faith, 
and also prepared Home Influence for the press, though 
very unfit to have taxed her powers so far. Her medical 
attendant became urgent for total change of air and 
scene, and again strongly interdicted all mental exer¬ 
tion ; a trip to Frankfort, to visit her elder brother, was 
therefore decided on. In June, 1847, she set out, and 
bore the journey without suffering nearly so much as 
might have been expected. Her hopes were high, her 
spirits raised; the novelty and interest of her first travels 
on the Continent gave her, for a very transient period, 
a gleam, as it were, of strength. For a week or two 
she appeared to rally; then, again, every exertion be¬ 
came too much for her, every stimulating remedy seem¬ 
ed to exhaust her. She was ordered from Frankfort to 
try the baths and mineral waters of Schwalbach, but 
without success. After a stay of six weeks, and perse¬ 
vering with exemplary patience in the treatment pre¬ 
scribed, she was one night seized with alarming convul¬ 
sive spasms, so terrible that her family removed her the 
next morning with all speed back to Frankfort, to the 
house of a family of most kind friends, where every at¬ 
tention and care was lavishly bestowed. 

In vain. She took to her bed the very day of her 
arrival, and never rose from it again; she became daily 


xvi MEMOIR OF GRACE AGUILAR. 

weaker, and in three weeks from that time her sufferings 
ceased forever. She was perfectly conscious to within 
less than two hours before her death, and took an affec¬ 
tionate leave of her mother and brother. Speech had 
been a matter of # difficulty for some time previous, her 
throat being greatly affected by her malady; but she 
had, in consequence, learned to use her fingers in the 
manner of the deaf and dumb, and almost the last time 
they moved it was to spell upon them, feebly, “ Though 
He slay me, yet will I trust in Him.” 

She was buried in the cemetery of Frankfort, one of 
which is set apart for the people of her faith. The stone 
which marks the spot bears upon it a butterfly and five 
stars, emblematic of the soul in heaven, and beneath 
appears the inscription, 

“ GIVE HER OF THE FRUIT OF HER HANDS, AND LET HER OWN 
WORKS PRAISE HER IN THE GATES.” 

Prov . ch. xxvi. v. 31. 

And thus, 16th of September, 1847, at the early age 
of thirty-one, Grace Aguilar was laid to rest; the bowl 
was broken, the silver cord was loosed. Her life was 
short, and checkered with pain and anxiety, but she 
strove hard to make it useful and valuable, by employ¬ 
ing diligently and faithfully the talents with which she 
had been endowed. Nor did the serious view with 
which she ever regarded earthly existence induce her to 
neglect or despise any occasion of enjoyment, advan¬ 
tage, or sociality which presented itself. Her heart was 
ever open to receive, her hand to give. 

Inasmuch as she succeeded to the satisfaction of her 
fellow-b.eings, let them be grateful; inasmuch as she 
failed, let those who perceive it deny her not the meed 


MEMOIR OF GRACE AGUILAR. 


xvii 


of praise for her endeavor to open the path she believed 
would lead manldnd to practical virtue and happiness, 
and strive to carry out the pure philanthropic principles 
by which she was actuated, and which she so earnestly 
endeavored to diffuse. 


October , 1849. 







CONTENTS. 


PART J. 

THE SISTERS. 

Chapter Page 

I. — A Launch — A Promise — A new Relation. ... 1 

II. — Glimpses into a Child’s Heart — A Death-bed . . 8 

HI. — Retrospection — The Lowly sought — The Haughty foiled 20 

IV. — Retrospective — Effects of Coquetry — Obedience and 

Disobedience.27 

V. — A Heart and Home in England — A Heart and Home 

in India.40 

VI. — Domestic Discord, and its End.48 

PART H. 

TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 

I. — Youthful Colloquy — Introducing Character . . 58 

II. — Three English Jlomes, and their Inmates . . 68 

ni. — Home Scene — Visitors — Childish Meditations . 76 

IV. — Varieties.85 

V. — A Young Gentleman in a Passion — A Walk — A Scene 

of Distress.97 

VI. — Cecil Grahame’s Philosophy—An Error, and its Conse¬ 

quences— A Mystery and a Confidence . . 105 


/ 







XX 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter Page 

VII. — Mr. Morton’s Story — A Confession — A young Pleader 

— Generosity not always Justice . . . .115 

Vni. — An unpleasant Proposal — The Mystery Solved — A 
Father’s Grief from a Mother’s Weakness — A Fa¬ 
ther’s Joy from a Mother’s Influence . . . 124 

IX. — Temptation and Disobedience — Fear— Falsehood and 

Punishment.. . .136 

X. — Pain and Penitence — Truth Impressed, and Reconcilia¬ 

tion — The Family-tree.146 

XI. — The Children’s Ball.163 

XII. — Effects of Pleasure — The young Midshipman — Ill-tem¬ 

per, its Origin and Consequences . . . 180 

XIII. — Suspicion — A Parting, a double Grief — Innocence 

proved — Wrong done and Evil confirmed by Doubt 197 


PART III. 


SIN AND SUFFERING 


I. — Advance and Retrospect 

II. — A Letter, and its Consequences . 

III. — A Summons and a Loss 

IV. — The broken Desk 

V. — The Culprit and the Judge 

VI. — The Sentence, and its Execution 

VII. — The Eight glimmers 

VIII. — The Struggle . 

IX. — Illness and Remorse 

X. — Mistaken Lnpressions eradicated 

XI. — The Loss of the Siren 

XII. — Forebodings . . . • . 


XIII. — Forgiveness 

XIV. — The Rich and the Poor 

XV. — A Home Scene, and a Parting 

XVI. —The Birthday Gift 


212 

226 

238 

250 

265 

278 

294 

303 

314- 

324 

334 

341 

351 

360 

370 

382 







HOME INFLUENCE 


PART I. 

THE SISTERS. 


CHAPTER I. 

A LAUNCH.-A PROMISE.-A NEW RELATION^ 

In a very beautiful part of Wales, between the northern 
boundaries of Glamorgan and the south-eastern of Carmarthen¬ 
shire, there stood, some twenty or thirty years ago, a small 
straggling village. Its locality was so completely concealed 
that the appearance of a gentleman’s carriage, or, in fact, any 
vehicle superior to a light spring-cart, was of such extremely 
rare occurrence as to be dated, in the annals of Llangwillan, as 
a remarkable event, providing the simple villagers with amus¬ 
ing wonderment for weeks. 

The village was scattered over the side of a steep and rug¬ 
ged hill; and on the east, emerging from a thick hedge of yews 
and larches, peeped forth the picturesque old church, whose 
tin-coated spire, glittering in the faintest sunshine, removed all 
appearance of gloom from the thick trees, and seemed to whis¬ 
per, whatever darkness lingered round, light was always shin¬ 
ing there. The churchyard, which the yews and larches screen¬ 
ed, was a complete natural garden, from the lowly cottage 
flowers, planted by loving hands over many a grassy grave, and 
so hallowed that not a child would pluck them, however tempt¬ 
ed by their luxuriance and beauty. A pretty cottage, whose 
white walls were covered with jasmine, roses, and honeysuckle, 
marked the humble residence of the village minister, who 
1 




2 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


though in worldly rank only a poor curate, from his spiritual 
gifts deserved a much higher grade. 

A gurgling stream ran leaping and sparkling over the craggy 
hill till it formed a deep, wide bed for itself along the road lead¬ 
ing to the nearest town, embanked on one side by a tall leafy 
hedge, and on the other by rich grass and meadow flowers. By 
the side of this stream groups of village children were continu¬ 
ally found, sometimes reaching for some particular flower or 
insect, or floating pieces of wood with a twig stuck upright 
within them as tiny fleets ; but this amusement had given place 
the last ten days to the greater excitement of watching the pro¬ 
gress of a miniature frigate, the workmanship of a young lad 
who had only very lately become an inmate of the village. All 
had been at length completed, sails, ropes, and masts, with a 
degree of neatness and beauty, showing not only ingenuity but 
observation ; and one lovely summer evening the ceremony of 
launching took place. For a few minutes she tottered and 
reeled amid the tiny breakers, then suddenly regained her equi¬ 
librium and dashed gallantly along. A loud shout burst- from 
the group, from all save the owner, a beautiful boy of some 
twelve years, who contented himself with raising his slight 
figure to its full height, and looking proudly and triumphantly 
round him. One glance would suffice to satisfy that his rank 
in life was far superior to that of his companions, and that he 
condescended from circumstances, not from choice, to mingle 
with them. So absorbed was the general attention that the 
very unusual sound of carriage-wheels was unremarked until 
close beside them, and then so astounding was the sight of a 
private carriage and the coachman’s very simple question if 
that road led to the village, that all hung back confused. The 
owner of the little vessel, however, answered proudly and 
briefly in the affirmative. “And can you direct me, my good 
boy,” inquired a lady, looking from the window, and smiling 
kindly at the abashed group, “ to the residence of Mrs. Foi> 
tescue. It is out of the village, is it not ? ” 

“Mrs. Fortescue!” repeated the boy eagerly and gladly, 
and his cap was off his head in a moment, and the bright sun¬ 
shine streamed on a face of such remarkable beauty, and withal 
so familiar, that though the lady bent eagerly forward to 
address him, emotion so choked her voice that the lad was 
enabled to reply to her inquiry, and direct the coachman to the 
only inn of the village, and they had driven off*, before words 
returned. 

The boy looked eagerly after them, then desiring ode of his 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


3 


companions to meet the lady at the inn, and guide her to the 
cottage, caught up his little vessel, and darted off across some 
fields which led by a shorter cut to the same place. 

It was a very humble dwelling, so surrounded by hills that 
their shadow always seemed to overhang it: yet within, the 
happy temper of a poor widow and her daughter kept up a 
perpetual sunshine. Three weeks previous to the evening we 
have mentioned, a lady and two children had arrived at Llang- 
willan, unable to proceed farther from the severe indisposi¬ 
tion of the former. They were unattended, and the driver only 
knew that heir destination was Swansea; he believed they 
had been shipwrecked off Pembroke, and that the poor lady 
was very ill when she commenced her journey, but the curious 
inquiries of the villagers could elicit nothing more. Mr. Myr- 
vin, with characteristic benevolence, devoted himself to insur¬ 
ing, as far as he could, the comfort of the invalid; had her 
removed from the inn to Widow Morgan’s cottage, confident 
that there she would at least be nursed with tenderness and 
care, and so near him as to permit his constant watchfulness. 
But a very few days too sadly convinced him, not only that her 
disease was mortal, but that his presence and gentle accents 
irritated instead of soothed. Ill-temper and self-will seemed to 
increase with the weakness, which every day rendered her 
longing to continue her journey more and more futile. It was 
some days before she could even be persuaded to write to the 
relative she was about to seek, so determined was she that she 
would get well; and when the letter was forwarded, and long 
before an answer could have been received (for twenty years 
ago there were no railroads to carry on epistolary communica¬ 
tion as now,) fretfulness and despondency increased physical 
suffering, by the determined conviction that she was abandon¬ 
ed, her children would be left uncared for. In vain Mr. Myr- 
vin assured her of the impossibility yet to receive a reply, that 
the direction might not even have been distinct enough, for her 
memory had failed her in dictating it; she knew she was de¬ 
serted, she might have deserved it, but her Edward was inno¬ 
cent, and it was very hard on him. As self-will subsided in 
physical exhaustion, misery increased. A restless torturing 
remembrance seemed to have taken possession of her, which all 
the efforts of the earnest clergyman were utterly ineffectual to 
remove. She would not listen to the peace he proffered, and 
so painfully did his gentle eloquence appear to irritate instead 
of calm, that lie desisted, earnestly praying, that her sister 
might answer the letter in person, and by removing anxiety 
prepare the mind for better thoughts. 


4 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


One object alone had power to bring something like a smile 
to that altered but still most beautiful countenance, conquer 
even irritation, and still create intervals of pleasure — it was 
her son, the same beautiful boy we have already noticed, and 
whose likeness to herself was so extraordinary that it would 
have been almost too feminine a beauty, had it not been for 
the sparkling animated expression of every feature, and the 
manly self-possession which characterized his every movement. 
That he should be his mother’s idol was not very surprising, 
for the indiscreet and lavish indulgence which had been his 
from birth, had not yet had power to shake his doating fond¬ 
ness for his mother, or interfere with her happiness by the 
visible display of the faults which her weakness had engender¬ 
ed. Caressingly affectionate, open-hearted, generous, and ever 
making her his first object, perhaps even a more penetrating 
mother would have seen nothing to dread but all to love. His 
uncontrolled passion at the slightest cross, his haughty pride 
and indomitable will toward all save her, but increased her 
affection. And when he was with her, which he was very 
often, considering that a sick close room would have been utterly 
repugnant to him had it not contained his mother, Mrs. Fortes- 
cue was actually happy. But it was a happiness only increas¬ 
ing her intensity of suffering when her son was absent. Hide 
it from herself as she might, the truth would press upon her 
that she was dying, and her darling must be left to the care of 
relations indeed, but utter strangers to him, and unlikely to 
treat him as she had done. She knew that he had, what strict 
disciplinarians, as she chose to regard her sister and her hus¬ 
band, would term and treat as serious faults, while she felt 
them actually virtues; and agony for him in the dread of what 
he might be called upon to endure, would deluge her pillow 
with passionate tears, and shake her slight frame as with con¬ 
vulsion. 

The day we have mentioned, Edward had been absent longer 
than usual, and toward evening Mrs. Fortescue awoke from 
a troubled sleep to brood over these thoughts, till they had pro¬ 
duced their usual effect in tears and sobs, the more painful to 
Witness from the increasing physical incapacity to struggle with 
them. 

A little girl, between ten and eleven years old, was seated 
on a low wooden stool, half concealed by the coarse curtain of 
the bed, employed in sewing some bright gilt buttons on a blue 
jacket. It seemed hard work for those small, delicate hands ; 
but she did not look up from her task till roused by the loo 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


5 


familiar sound of her mother’s suffering, and then, as she raised 
her head, and flung back the heavy and somewhat disordered 
ringlets, the impulse seemed to be to spring up and try to soothe, 
but a mournful expression quickly succeeded, and she sat several 
minutes without moving. At length, as Mrs. Fortescue’s sobs 
seemed almost to suffocate her, the child gently bent over her, 
saying, very timidly, “ Dear mamma, shall I call widow Mor¬ 
gan, or can I get any thing for you ? ” and, without waiting for 
a reply, save the angry negative to the first question, she held 
a glass of water to her mother’s lips and bathed her forehead. 
After a few minutes Mrs. Fortescue revived sufficiently to in¬ 
quire where Edward was. 

“ He has gone down to the stream to launch his little frigate, 
mamma, and asked me to fasten these buttons on his jacket, to 
make it look like a sailor’s meanwhile; I do not think he will 
be very long now.” 

Mrs. Fortescue made no rejoinder, except to utter aloud those 
thoughts which had caused her previous paroxysm, and her little 
girl, after a very evident struggle with her own painful timidity, 
ventured to say: 

“ But why should you fear so much for Edward, dear mam¬ 
ma? Everybody loves him and admires him, so I am sure my 
aunt and uncle will.” 

“ Your aunt may for my sake, but she will not love or bear 
with his childish faults as I have done; and your uncle is such 
a harsh, stern man, that there is little hope for his forbearance 
with my poor Edward. And he is so frank and bold, he will 
not know how even to conceal his boyish errors, and he will be 
punished, and his fine spirit broken, and who will be there to 
shield and soothe him! ” 

“I may be able sometimes, mamma, and indeed, indeed, I 
will whenever I can,” replied her child, with affecting earnest¬ 
ness. “I love him so very, very much, and I know he is so 
much better than I am, that it will be very easy to help him 
whenever I can.” 

“ Will you promise me, Ellen, will you really promise me to 
shield him, and save him from harshness whenever it is in your 
power,” exclaimed Mrs. Fortescue, so eagerly, that she half 
raised herself, and pressed Ellen to her with an appearance of 
affection so unusual, and a kiss so warm, that that moment never 
passed from the child’s mind, and the promise she gave was re¬ 
gistered in her own heart, with a solemnity and firmness of pur¬ 
pose little imagined by her mother, who, when she demanded it, 
conceived neither its actual purport nor extent; she only felt re- 
1 * 


6 


ifOME INFLUENCE. 


lieved that Edward would have some one by him, to love him 
and enable him to conceal his errors, if he should commit any. 

Had she studied and known the character of Ellen as she did 
that of her son, that promise would perhaps never have been 
asked; nor would she so incautiously and mistakenly have laid 
so great a stress upon concealment , as the only sure means of 
guarding from blame. From her childhood Mrs. Fortescue had 
been a creature of passion and impulse, and maternity had un¬ 
happily not altered one tittle of her character. In what man¬ 
ner, or at what cost, Ellen might be enabled to keep that pro¬ 
mise, never entered her mind. It had never been her wont, 
even in days of health, to examine or reflect, and present weak¬ 
ness permitted only the morbid indulgence of one exaggerated 
thought. 

For several minutes she lay quite silent, and Ellen resumed 
her seat and work, her temples throbbing, she knew not why, 
and a vain longing to throw her arms round her mother’s neck, 
and entreat her only for one more kiss, one other word of love ; 
and the consciousness that she dared not, caused the hot tears 
to rush into her eyes, and almost blind her, but she would not 
let them fall, for she had learned long ago, that while Edward’s 
tears only excited soothing and caresses, hers always called 
forth irritation and reproof. 

“Joy, joy! Mother, darling!” exclaimed an eager voice, 
some minutes afterward, and Edward bounded into the room, 
and throwing himself by his mother’s side, kissed her pale cheek 
again and again. “ Such joy! My ship sailed so beautifully, I 
quite longed for you to see it, and you will one day when you 
• get well and strong again; and I know you will soon now, for I 
am sure aunt Emmeline will very soon come, and then, then, 
you will be so happy, and we shall all be happy again! ” 

Mrs. Fortescue pressed him closer and closer to her, return¬ 
ing his kisses with such passionate fondness, that tears mingled 
with them, and fell upon his cheek. 

“ Don’t cry, mamma, dear! indeed, indeed, my aunt will soon 
come. Do you know I think I have seen her and spoken to 
her too ? ” 

“ Seen her, Edward ? You mean you have dreamed about 
her, and so fancy you have seen her; ” but the eager, anxious 
look she fixed upon him evinced more hope than her words. 

“No, no, mamma; as we were watching my ship, a carriage 
passed us, and a lady spoke to me, and asked me the way to 
the cottage where you lived, and I am sure it is aunt Emmeline 


f her smile.” 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


7 


“It cannot be,” murmured his mother, sadly; “unless — ” 
and her countenance brightened. “ Did she speak to you, Ed¬ 
ward, as if she knew you, recognized you, from your likeness 
to me?” 

“ No, mamma, there was no time, the carriage drove off again 
so quickly; but, hush! I am sure I hear her voice down stairs, 
and he sprung up from the bed and listened eagerly. “ Yes, 
yes, I am right, and she is coming up; no, it’s only widow 
Morgan, but I am sure it is my aunt by your face,” lie added, 
impatiently, as Mrs. Morgan tried by signs to beg him to be 
more cautious, and not to agitate his mother. “ Why don’t you 
let her come up?” and springing down the whole flight of stairs 
in two bounds, he rushed into the little parlor, caught hold of 
the lady’s dress, and exclaimed, “You are my aunt, my own 
dear aunt; do come up to mamma, she has been wanting you 
so long, so very long, and you will make her well, dear aunt, 
will you not ? ” 

“ Oh, that I may be allowed to do so, dear boy! ” was the 
painfully agitated reply, and she hastened up the stairs. 

But to Edward’s grief and astonishment, so little was he con¬ 
scious of his mother’s exhausted state, the sight of his aunt, pre¬ 
pared in some measure as she was, seemed to bring increase of 
suffering instead of joy. There was a convulsive effort for 
speech, a pdksionate return of her sister’s embrace, and she faint¬ 
ed. Edward in terror flung himself beside her, entreating her 
not to look so pale, but to wake and speak to him. Ellen, with 
a quickness and decision, which even at that moment caused her 
aunt to look at her with astonishment, applied the usual restor¬ 
atives, evincing no unusual alarm, and a careless observer might 
have said, no feeling; but it was only a momentary thought 
which Mrs. Hamilton could give to Ellen, every feeling was en¬ 
grossed in the deep emotion with which she gazed on the faded 
form and altered face of that still beloved though erring one; 
who, when she had last beheld her, thirteen years previous, was 
bright, buoyant, lovely as the boy beside them. Her voice yet, 
more than the proffered remedies, seemed to recall life, and 
after a brief interval the choking thought found words. 

“ My father! my father! Oh, Emmeline I know that he is 
dead! My disobedience, my ingratitude for all his too indul¬ 
gent love, killed him — I know it did. But did he curse me, 
Emmeline? did all his love turn to wrath, as it ought to have 
done? did — ” 

“Dearest Eleanor,” replied Mrs. Hamilton, with earnest 
tenderness, “ dismiss such painful thoughts at once; our poor 


8 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


father did feel your conduct deeply, but he forgave it, would 
have received your husband, caressed, loved you as before, had 
you but returned to him; and so loved you to the last moment, 
that your name was the last word upon his lips. But this is no 
subject for such youthful auditors,” she continued, interrupting 
herself, as she met Edward’s bright eyes fixed wonderingly 
upon her face, and noticed the excessive paleness of Ellen’s 
cheek. “You look weary, my love,” she said, kindly, drawing 
her niece to her, and affectionately kissing her. “ Edward has 
made his own acquaintance with me, why did you not do so 
too? But go now into the garden for a little while, I am sure 
you want fresh air, and I will take your place as nurse mean¬ 
while. Will you trust me?” 

And the kind smile which accompanied her words gave Ellen 
courage to return her kiss, but she left the room without speak¬ 
ing. Edward required more persuasion; and the moment he 
was permitted he returned, seated himself on a stool at his aunt’s 
feet, laid his head on her lap, and remained for nearly an hour 
quite silent, watching with her the calm slumbers which had 
followed the agitating conversation between them. Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton was irresistibly attracted toward him, and rather wondered 
that Ellen should stay away so long. She did not know that 
Edward had spent almost the whole of that day in the joyous 
sports natural to his age, and that it had been many’weary days 
and nights since Ellen had quitted her mother’s room. 


CHAPTER II. 

GLIMPSES INTO A CHILD’S HEART.-A DEATHBED. 

On leaving the cottage, Ellen hastily traversed the little 
garden, and entered a narrow lane, leading to Mr. Myrvin’s 
dwelling. Her little heart was swelling high within her, and 
the confinement she had endured, the constant control she exer¬ 
cised for fear she should add to her mother’s irritation, com¬ 
bined with the extreme delicacy of natural constitution, had so 
weakened her as to render the slightest exertion paiifful. She 
had been so often reproved as fretful and ill-tempered, when¬ 
ever in tears, that she always checked and concealed them. 
She had been so frequently told that she did not know what 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


9 


affection was, that she was so inanimate and cold, that though 
she did not understand the actual meaning of the words, she 
believed she was different to any one else, and was unhappy 
without knowing why. Compared with her brother, she cer¬ 
tainly was neither a pretty nor an engaging child. Weakly 
from her birth, her residence in India had increased constitu¬ 
tional delicacy, and while to a watchful eye the expression of 
her countenance denoted constant suffering, the heedless and 
superficial observer would condemn it as peevishness, and so 
unnatural to a young child, that nothing but confirmed ill- 
temper could have produced it. The soft, beautifully-formed 
black eye was too large for her other features, and the sallow¬ 
ness of her complexion, the heavy tresses of very dark hair, 
caused her to be remarked as a very plain child, which in 
reality she was not. Accustomed to hear beauty extolled 
above every thing else, beholding it in her mother and brother, 
and imagining it was Edward’s great beauty that always made 
him so beloved and petted, an evil-disposed child would have 
felt nothing but envy and dislike toward him. But Ellen felt 
neither. She loved him devotedly; but that any one could 
love her, now that the only one who ever had, — her idolized 
father, — was dead, she thought impossible. 

Why her heart and temples beat so quickly as she left her 
mother’s room — why the promise she had so lately made 
should so cling to her mind, that even her aunt’s arrival could 
not remove it — why she felt so giddy and weak as to render 
walking painful, the poor child could not have told, but, unable 
at length to go farther, she sat down on a grassy bank, and 
believing herself quite alone, cried bitterly. Several minutes 
passed and she did not look up, till a well-known voice in¬ 
quired, — 

“ Dear Ellen, what is the matter ? What has happened to 
grieve you so to-day ? won’t you tell me ? ” 

“ Indeed, indeed, I do not know, dear Arthur; I only feel — 
feel — as if I had not so much strength as I had a few days 
ago — and, and I could not help crying.” 

“ You are not well, Ellen,” replied her companion, a fine lad 
of sixteen, and Mr. Myrvin’s only son. “You are looking 
paler than I ever saw you before; let me call my father. You 
know he is always pleased when he sees you, and he hoped 
you would* have been to us before to-day; come with me to 
him now.” 

“ No, Arthur, indeed I cannot; he will think I have forgot¬ 
ten all he said to me the last time I saw him, and, indeed, I 


10 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


have not — but I — I do not know what is the matter with me 
to-day.” 

And, in spite of all her efforts to restrain them, the tears 
would burst forth afresh; and Arthur, finding all his efforts at 
consolation ineffectual, contented himself with putting his arm 
round her and kissing them away. A few minutes afterward 
his father appeared. 

“ In tears, my dear Ellen! ” he said, kindly; “ your mother 
is not worse, I hope ? ” 

“ I do not know, sir,” replied the child, as well as her tears 
would permit; “ she has been very ill just now, for her faint 
was longer than usual.” 

“ Did any thing particular occasion it?” 

“ I think it was seeing my aunt. Mamma was very much 
agitated before and afterward.” 

“ Mrs. Hamilton has arrived then! I am rejoiced to hear 
it,” replied Mr. Myrvin, gladly. Then sitting down by Ellen, 
he took one of her hands in his, and said, kindly, “ Something 
has grieved my little girl this evening; I will not ask what it 
is, because you may not like to tell me; but you must not 
imagine evils, Ellen. I know you have done, and are doing, 
the duty of a good, affectionate child, nursing your suffering 
mother, bearing with intervals of impatience, which her invalid 
state occasions, and giving up all your own wishes to sit quietly 
by her: I have not seen you, my child, but I know those who 
have, and this has pleased me, and, what is of much more con¬ 
sequence, it proves you have not forgotten all I told you of 
your Father in Heaven, that even a little child can try to love 
and serve Him.” 

“ But have you not told me those who are good are always 
happy ? ” inquired Ellen; “ then I cannot be good, though in¬ 
deed I try to be so, for I do not think I am happy, for I can 
never laugh and sing and talk as Edward does.” 

“ You are not in so strong health as your brother, my dear 
little girl, and you have had many things to make you unhappy, 
which Edward has not. But you must try and remember that 
even if it please God that sometimes you should be more sor¬ 
rowful than other children, He loves you notwithstanding. I 
am sure you have not forgotten the story of Joseph that I told 
you a few Sundays ago. God so loved him, as to give him the 
power of foretelling future events, and enabling him to do a 
great deal of good, but when he was taken away from his 
father and sold as a slave and cast into prison among cruel 
strangers, he could not have been very happy, Ellen. Yet still, 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


11 


young as lie was, little more than a child in those days, and 
thrown among those who did not know right from wrong, he 
remembered all that his father had taught him, and prayed to 
God, and tried to love and obey Him; and God was pleased 
with him, and gave him grace to continue good, and at last so 
blessed him, as to permit him to see his dear father and darling 
brother again.” 

“ But Joseph was his father’s favorite child,’’ was Ellen’s 
sole rejoinder ; and the tears which were checked in the eager¬ 
ness with which she had listened, seemed again ready to burst 
forth. “ He must have been happy when he thought of that.” 

“ I do not think so, my dear Ellen,” replied Mr. Myrvin, 
more moved than he chose to betray, “ for being his father’s 
favorite first excited the dislike and envy of 'his brothers, and 
caused them to wish to send him away. There was no excuse 
indeed for their conduct; but perhaps if Joseph had always 
remained near his father he might have been spoiled by too 
great indulgence, and never become as good as he afterwards 
was. Perhaps in his solitary prison he might even- have re¬ 
gretted that his father had not treated them all alike, as then 
the angry feelings of his brothers would not have been called 
forth. So you see, being a favorite will not always make us 
happy, Ellen. It is indeed very delightful to be loved and 
caressed, and if we try to do our duty and love as much as we 
can, even if we are not sure of being loved at first, we may be 
quite certain that we shall be loved and happy at last. Do 
you understand me, my child ? ” 

The question was almost needless, for Ellen’s large eyes had 
never moved from his face, and their expression was so full of 
intelligence and meaning, that the whole countenance seemed 
lighted up. “ Then do you think mamma will recover ? ” she 
eagerly exclaimed ; “ will she ever love me ? — oh, if I thought 
so, I could never, never be naughty again ! ” 

“ She will love you, my dear Ellen,” replied Mr. Myrvin, 
now visibly affected, “ I cannot, I dare not tell you that she 
will recover to love you on earth, but if indeed it be God’s will 
that she should go to Him, she will look down on you from 
Heaven and love you far more than she has done yet, for she 
will know then how much you love her.” 

“And will she know if I do all she wishes — if I love and 
help Edward ? ” asked Ellen, in a low, half-friglitened voice; 
and little did Mr. Myrvin imagine how vividly and how indeli¬ 
bly his reply was registered in the child’s memory. 

“ It is a question none can answer positively, Ellen, but it is 


12 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


my own firm belief, that the beloved ones we have lost are 
permitted to watch over and love us still, and that they see us, 
and are often near us, though we cannot see them. But even 
to help Edward,” he continued somewhat anxiously, “ you must 
not be tempted — ” 

He was interrupted by the appearance of a stranger, who, 
addressing him courteously, apologized for his intrusion, and 
noticing the children, inquired if both were his. 

Mr. Myrvin replied that he could only lay claim to one ; the 
little girl was Miss Fortescue. 

“And my name is Hamilton, so I think I have an uncle’s 
privilege was the reply; and Ellen, to her astonishment, re¬ 
ceived an affectionate embrace from the unknown relative, 
whom her mother’s ill-judged words had taught her actually to 
dread. Mr. Myrvin gladly welcomed him, and, in the interest 
of the conversation which followed, forgot the lesson he had 
been so anxious to impress upon Ellen. Arthur accompanied 
her to the garden gate, and the gentlemen soon afterward en¬ 
tered the cottage together. 

Days merged into weeks, and still Mrs. Fortescue lingered ; 
but her weakness increasing so painfully from alternate fever 
and exhaustion that to remove her was impossible. It was the 
first time that Mrs. Hamilton had ever been separated from 
her children, and there were many disagreeables attendant on 
nursing a beloved invalid in that confined cottage; and with 
only those little luxuries and comforts that could be procured 
(and even these were obtained with difficulty, for the nearest 
town was twenty miles distant,) but not a selfish or repining 
thought entered Mrs. Hamilton’s mind. It was filled with 
thankfulness, not only that she was permitted thus to tend a 
sister, whom neither error, nor absence, nor silence could es¬ 
trange from her heart, but that she was spared long enough for 
her gentle influence and enduring love to have some effect in 
changing her train of thought, calming that fearful irritability, 
and by slow degrees permitting her to look with resignation 
and penitent hope to that hour which no human effort could 
avert. That Mr. Myrvin should seek Mrs. Hamilton’s society 
and delight in conversing with her, Mrs. Fortescue considered 
so perfectly natural, that the conversations which took place in 
her sick room, whenever she was strong enough to bear them, 
excited neither surprise nor impatience. Different as she was, 
wilfully as she had always neglected the mild counsels and ex¬ 
ample of her sister, the years of separation and but too often 
excited self-reproach had fully awakened her to Mrs. Hamil- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


13 


ton’s superiority. She had never found any one at all like 
her — so good and holy, yet so utterly unassuming; and the 
strong affection, even the deep emotion in one usually so con¬ 
trolled, with which her sister had met her, naturally increased 
these feelings. 

“Ah, you and Emmeline will find much to converse about,” 
had been her address to Mr. Myrvin, on his first introduction to 
Mrs. Hamilton. “Talk as much as you please, and do not 
mind me. With Emmeline near me, I can restrain irritability 
which must have frightened you away. I know she is right. 
Oh, would to God I had always been like her! ” and the suffer¬ 
ing betrayed in the last words was a painful contrast with the 
lightness of her previous tone. 

Mr. Myrvin answered soothingly, and for the first time his 
words were patiently received. From listening listlessly, Mrs. 
Fortescue, by slow degrees, became interested in the conversa¬ 
tions between him and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and so a change 
in sentiments was gradually wrought, which by any other and 
harsher method of proceeding would have been sought form vain. 

One evening as Mrs. Hamilton sat watching the faded coun¬ 
tenance of her patient, and recalling those days of youth and 
buoyancy, when it seemed as if neither death nor care could 
ever have assailed one so bright and lovely, Edward, before he 
sought his favorite stream, threw his arms round her neck, and 
pressed his rosy lips on her cheek, as thus to wish her good-by. 

“ He will repay you for all your care, dearest Emmeline,” his 
mother said, with a heavy sigh, as he left the room; “ I know 
he has what you and your husband will think faults, but, oh, 
for my sake, do not treat him harshly; his noble spirit will be 
broken if you do! ” t 

“ Dearest Eleanor, dismiss all such fears. Am I not a mo¬ 
ther equally with yourself ? ” and do you think when your child¬ 
ren become mine I shall show any difference between them and 
my own? You would trust me even in former years, surely 
you will trust me now ? ” 

“ Indeed, indeed, I do; you were always kind and forbearing 
with me, when I little deserved it. But my poor Edward, it is 
so hard to part with him, and he loves me so fondly! ” and a 
few natural tears stole down her cheek. 

“And he shall continue to love you dearest Eleanor; and oh, 
believe me, all that you have been to him I will be. I have 
won the devoted affection of all my own darlings, and I do not 
fear to gain the love of yours; and then it will be an easy task 
to make them happy as my own.” 

2 


14 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


“ Edward’s love you will very quickly obtain, if it be not 
yours already; but Ellen you will have more trouble with. She 
is a strange, cold, unlovable child.” 

“Are the dispositions of your children so unlike? I should 
not have fancied Ellen cold; she is timid, but that I thought 
would wear off when she knew me better.” 

“ It is not timidity; I never knew her otherwise than cold 
and reserved from her birth. I never could feel the same 
toward her as I did toward Edward, and therefore there must 
be something in Ellen to prevent it.” 

Mrs. Hamilton did not think so, but she answered gently, 
“Are you quite sure, my dear Eleanor, that you have equally 
studied the characters of both your children? because you know 
there are some cases which require more study and carefulness 
than others.” 

“I never was fond of studying any thing, Emmeline, as you 
may remember,” replied Mrs. Fortescue, painfully trying to smile, 
“and therefore I dare say I have not studied my children as 
you have yours. Besides, you know I always thought, and still 
think, the doctrine of mothers forming the characters of their 
children, and all that good people say about the importance of 
early impressions, perfectly ridiculous. The disposition for 
good or bad, loving or unloving, is theirs from the moment of 
their birth, and what human efforts can alter that? Why, the 
very infancy of my children was different; Edward was always 
laughing, and animated, and happy; Ellen fretful and peevish, 
and so heavy that she never seemed even to know when I en¬ 
tered the room, while Edward would spring into my arms, and 
shout and laugh only to see me. Now what conduct on my 
part could have done this? Surely I was justified in feeling 
differently toward v such opposite dispositions; and I know I 
never made more difference between them than — than papa 
did between us, Emmeline, and I have had greater reason to be 
partial; you were always better than I was.” 

She ceased, from exhaustion, but the flush which had risen 
to her temples, and the trembling hands, evinced the agitation 
always called forth by the mention of her father, which Mrs. 
Hamilton, with earnest tenderness, endeavored to soothe. 

“ I must speak, Emmeline,” she continued, natural impetuos¬ 
ity for the moment regaining ascendency ; “ how did I repay 
my fond father’s partiality ? his too great indulgence ? Did I 
not bring down his gray hairs with sorrow to the grave ? Did 
I not throw shame and misery upon him by my conduct to the 
ill-fated one he had chosen for my husband ? Did I not ? — oh 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


15 


my God, my God ! Death may indeed be merciful! — my 
Edward might do the same by me ! ” and, shuddering violently, 
she hid her face on her sister’s bosom. 

It was long before Mrs. Hamilton could calm that fearful 
agitation, long before her whispered words of heavenly hope, 
and peace, and pardon — if indeed she believed — could bring 
comfort; but they did at length, and such fearful paroxysms 
returned at longer and longer intervals, and at length ceased, 
in the deep submission and clinging trust to which she was at 
last permitted to attain. Though Mrs. Hamilton was detained 
six weeks at Llangwillan, her devoted attendance on her sister 
prevented any thing more than occasional observation of the 
children so soon about to be committed to her care. That 
Edward was most engaging, and riveted her affection at once, 
and that Ellen was unlike any child she had ever known or 
seen, she could not but feel, but she was not one to decide on a 
mere feeling. Her present mournful task prevented all actual 
interference with them, except the endeavor by kindly notice to 
win their confidence and love. His mother’s illness and his 
uncle’s presence, besides, for the present, his perfect freedom 
with regard to employment, had deprived Edward of all 
inclination to rebel or exert his self-will, and Mr. and Mrs. 
Hamilton both felt that he certainly had fewer faults, than was 
generally the consequence of unlimited indulgence. Whether 
Ellen’s extreme attention to her mother, her silent but ever 
ready help when her aunt required it, proceeded from mere 
cold duty, or really had its origin in affection, Mrs. Hamilton 
could not satisfactorily decide. Her sister had avowed par¬ 
tiality, but that neglect and unkindness could have been shown 
to such an extent by a mother as to create the cold exterior 
she beheld, was so utterly incomprehensible, so opposed to 
every dictate of maternal love, which she knew so well, that 
she actually could not even imagine it. She could believe in 
the possibility of a preference for one child more than another, 
but not in utter neglect and actual dislike. She could imagine 
that Ellen’s love for her mother might be less warm than Ed¬ 
ward’s, believing, as she did, that a parent must call for a 
child’s affection, not be satisfied with leaving all to Nature ; 
but if it were not love that dictated Ellen’s conduct, it was 
strange and almost unnatural, and so unpleasing, that so young 
a child should have such an idea of duty. But these were only 
passing thoughts ; cost what trouble it might, Mrs. Hamilton 
determined she would understand her niece as she did her own 
children. 


16 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


But though to her Ellen was a riddle, to her sister Nature 
was resuming her sway, too late, alas ! for all save the mother’s 
own reproaches. Her weakness had become such that days 
would pass when speech, save a few whispered words, was 
impossible; but she would gaze upon her child, as hour after 
hour she would sit by the bed, resisting all Edward’s entreaties, 
and sometimes even her aunt’s to go and play, and long to fold 
her to her heart, and confess she had been cruelly unjust, and 
that she did love her now almost as much as Edward, but she 
was much too weak to do more than feel. And Ellen remained 
unconscious of the change, except that now and then, as she 
would bring her nourishment or bend over to bathe her fore¬ 
head, her mother would, as if involuntarily, kiss her cheek and 
murmur some caressing word. And Ellen longed to cling to 
her neck and say how much she loved her, but she did not dare, 
and she would hurry out of the room to conceal her tears, 
instead of returning the caress, thus unhappily confirming the 
idea of natural coldness. 

Even the comfort of sitting by her mother was at length de¬ 
nied her. Mrs. Fortescue became so alarmingly and painfully 
ill, that Mrs. Hamilton felt it an unnecessary trial for her child¬ 
ren to witness it, especially as they could be no comfort to 
her, for she did not know them. The evening of the fourth day 
she recovered sufficiently to partake of the sacrament with her 
sister and Mr. Hamilton, and then entreat that her children 
might be brought to her. She felt herself, what the physician 
had imparted to her sister, that the recovery of her senses 
would in all human probability be followed in a few hours by 
death, and her last thoughts were on them. 

Edward, full of glee at being permitted to see her again, 
bounded joyfully into the room, but the fearful change in that 
beloved face so startled and terrified him, that he uttered a loud 
cry, and throwing himself beside her, sobbed upon her bosom. 
Mrs. Fortescue was fearfully agitated, but she conjured her 
sister not to take him from her, and her heavy eyes wandered 
painfully round the room in search of Ellen. 

“ Come to me, Ellen, I have done you injustice, my sweet 
child,” she murmured in a voice that Ellen never in her life 
forgot, and she clung to her in silent agony. “ I have not done 
my duty to you, I know — I feel I have not, and it is too late 
now to atone. I can only pray God to bless you, and raise 
you up a kinder parent than I have been ! Bless, bless you 
both.” Faintness overpowered her, and she lay for several 
minutes powerless, in Mrs. Hamilton’s arms. Edward, ’n pas- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


17 


sionate grief, refused to stir from the bed; and Ellen, almost 
unconsciously, sunk on her knees by Mr. Myrvin. 

“ My own sister, bless you — for all you have been to me — 
all you will be to my children — may they repay you better 
than I have done, Emmeline! You are right, there is but one 
hope, our Saviour, for the sinner — it is mine — ” were the 
broken sentences that, in a voice which was scarcely audible, 
and uttered at long intervals, escaped Mrs. Fortescue’s lips, 
and then her head sunk lower on Mrs. Hamilton’s bosom, and 
there was a long, long silence, broken only by Edward’s low 
and half-suffocated sobs. And he knew not, guessed not, the 
grief that was impending. He only felt that his mother was 
worse, not better, as he had believed she would and must be, 
when his aunt arrived. He had never seen death, though 
Ellen had, and he had passionately and wilfully refused either 
to listen or to believe in his uncle’s and Mr. Myrvin’s gentle 
attempts to prepare him for his loss. Terrified at the continu¬ 
ed silence, at .the cold heavy feel of his mother’s hand, as when 
Mr. Myrvin and the widow gently removed her from the still¬ 
supporting arm of Mrs. Hamilton, it fell against his, he started 
up, and clinging to his aunt, implored her to speak to him, to 
tell him why his mother looked so strange and white, her hand 
felt so cold, and why she would not speak to and kiss him, as 
she always did, when he was grieved. 

Mrs. Hamilton raised her head from her husband’s shoulder, 
and struggling with her own deep sorrow, she drew her orphan 
nephew closer to her, and said, in a low, earnest voice, “ My 
Edward, did you not hear your mother pray God to bless 
you ? ” 

The child looked at her inquiringly. 

“ That good God has taken her to Himself, my love; He 
has thought it better to remove her from us, and take her where 
she will never know pain nor illness more.” 

u But she is lying there,” whispered Edward, in a frightened 
voice, and half hiding his face in his aunt’s dress —“ she is 
not taken away. Why will she not speak to me ? ” 

“ She cannot speak, my sweet boy! the soul which enabled 
her to speak, and smile, and live, was God’s gift, and it has 
pleased Him to recall it.” 

“ And will she never, never speak to me again ? will she 
never kiss me — never call me her own darling, beautiful Ed¬ 
ward again ? ” he almost screamed in passionate grief, as the 
truth at length forced itself upon him. u Mamma, mamma, my 
own dear, pretty, good mamma, oh ! do not go away from me —• 

2 * 


18 


HOME LNKLl'HXCE. 


or let me go with you — let me die too ; no one will love me 
and kiss me as you have done.” And even the natural awe 
and terror of death gave way before his grief; he clung to the 
body of his mother so passionately, so convulsively, that it re¬ 
quired actual force to remove him. And for hours his aunt 
and sister watched over and tried to soothe and comfort him in 
vain; he would only rouse himself angrily to ask Ellen how 
she could know what he felt; she had never loved their mother 
as he had — she did not know what he had lost — she could not 
feel as he did, and then relapse into tears and sobs. Ellen did 
not attempt reply. She thought, if it were such pain to her to 
lose her mother, who had only the last few weeks evinced affec¬ 
tion for her, it must indeed be still more suffering to him ; and 
though his angry words grieved and hurt her (for she knew she 
did love her mother most fondly, her idea of her own extreme 
inferiority acquitted her unconsciously of all injustice toward 
her, and made her believe that she had loved Edward best only 
because he was so much better than herself,) his very grief 
caused her to love and admire him still more, and to believe 
that she really did not feel as much as he did. And yet before 
they quitted Llangwillan, which they did the second day after 
Mrs. Fortescue’s funeral, Edward could laugh and talk as 
usual — except when any object recalled his mother; and poor 
Ellen felt that though she had fancied she was not happy be¬ 
fore, she was much more unhappy now. Her fancy naturally 
vivid, and rendered more so from her having been left so much 
to herself, dwelt morbidly on all that had passed in her mother’s 
illness, on every caress, every unusual word of affection, and on 
Mr. Myrvin’s assurance that she would love her in Heaven; 
the promise she had made to love and help Edward returned 
to her memory again and again, and each time with the increas¬ 
ed determination to keep it solemnly. It was not for her mo¬ 
ther’s sake alone, and connected only with her; perhaps, had 
it not been for the careful instructions of her father, whom, as 
we shall presently see, she had cause almost to idolize, Ellen 
might have become indifferent to her mother and envious of 
Edward. But his repeated instructions, under all circumstances 
to love, cherish, and obey her mother had been indelibly en¬ 
graved, and heightened natural feeling. She believed that to 
keep the promise, which had so evidently pleased her mother, 
would be also obeying her father, and this-double incentive 
gave it a weight and consequence, which, could Mrs. Hamilton 
have known it, would have caused her great anxiety, and urged 
its removal. But Ellen had been too long accustomed to hide 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


19 


every thought and feeling to betray that which, child as she 
was, she believed sacred between herself and her mother. Mrs. 
Hamilton watched her in silence, and trusted to time and care 
to do their work; and by enabling her to understand her cha¬ 
racter, permit her to guide it rightly. 

The morning of their intended departure was bright and 
sunny, and before even widow Morgan was moving, Ellen had 
quitted her little bed, and was in the churchyard by her 
mother’s grave. She sat there thinking so intently, that she 
did not know how time passed, till she was roused by her 
favorite Arthur Myrvin’s voice. 

“ Up so early, Ellen, why, I thought I should have been 
first to show you I had not forgotten my promise.” And he 
displayed some choice flower-roots, which he commenced plant¬ 
ing round the grave. 

“ Dear Arthur, how very kind you are; but you look so 
sad — what is the matter ? Does not Mr. Myrvin like you to 
do this — pray don’t, then.” 

“No, no, Ellen, my father said I was right, and that he 
would take care of the flowers also himself. I am only sorry 
you are going away, and to live so differently to what we 
do — you will quite forget me.” 

“ Indeed, indeed I shall not, dear Arthur; I can never for¬ 
get those who have been so kind to me as you and dear Mr. 
Myrvin; I would much rather stay here always with you, 
than go among strangers again, but I heard my aunt say last 
night, that perhaps Mr. Myrvin would let you come and see 
us sometimes — and you will like that, will you not ? ” Arthur 
did not seem quite sure whether he would like it or not; but 
they continued talking till his task was completed, and Arthur, 
at Ellen’s earnest request, for she suddenly feared her aunt 
would be displeased at her having staid out so long, returned 
with her to the cottage; the silent kiss, however, which she 
received when Arthur explained what had detained them, 
reassured her, and bound her yet closer to the kind relative, 
whom, if timidity had permitted, she would already have so 
loved. 

The novelty of his situation, the rapid and pleasant move¬ 
ment of his uncle’s carriage, the idea of the new relations he 
was about to meet, and an unconfessed, but powerful feeling 
of his own increased consequence in being so nearly connected 
with wealth and distinction, all had their effect upon Edward, 
and his eye sparkled and his cheek glowed, as if all sorrow 
had entirely passed away; not that he had ceased to think of 


20 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


his mother, for the least reference to her would fill his eyes 
with tears and completely check his joy — but still delight pre¬ 
dominated. Ellen felt more and more the wish to shrink into 
herself, for the farther they left Llangwillan, the more painfully 
she missed Mr. Myrvin and his son, and the more she shrunk 
from encountering strangers. Edward she knew would speedily 
find companions to love, and to be loved by, and he would 
think still less of her. Her aunt would soon be surrounded by 
her own children, and then how could she expect to win her 
love? And Ellen looked intently and silently out from the 
carriage-window — her uncle believed on the many-flowered 
hedge and other objects of interest by which they passed — 
his wife imagined to hide a tear that trembled in her eyes, but 
which she had determined should not fall. 


CHAPTER III. 

RETROSPECTION.-THE LOWLY SOUGHT.-THE nAUGHTY 

FOILED. 

In order clearly to understand the allusions of the previous 
chapters, and the circumstances which had formed the different 
characters of Mrs. Hamilton and Mrs. Fortescue, it will be 
necessary to take a retrospective glance on their early lives. 
Should it be uninteresting to the more youthful of our readers, 
we will beg them to proceed at once to “ Traits of Character,” 
but to their elder relatives we hope the matter will prove of 
sufficient interest to obtain perusal. 

Emmeline and Eleanor Manvers were the daughters of 
Lord Delmont, a nobleman whose title and rank were rather 
burdensome than otherwise, from the want of sufficient means 
to keep them up as inclination and position warranted. Lady 
Delmont, whose energetic, yet gentle character would have 
greatly ameliorated the petty vexations of her husband, died 
when Emmeline was only seven, Eleanor five,’and Charles, her 
only boy, an infant of but three years old. A widow lady, 
Mrs. Harcourt by name, had been selected by Lady Delmont’ 
in her last illness, as instructress and guardian of her daugh- 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


21 


ters. Her wishes, always laws to her doating husband, were 
promptly fulfilled, and Mrs. Harcourt, two months after her 
friend’s death, assumed the arduous and responsible duties for 
which her high character well fitted her. 

With Emmeline, though there were naturally some faults to 
correct, an indolence and weakness to overcome, and appa¬ 
rently no remarkable natural aptitude for acquirement, her task 
was comparatively easy, for her pupil had the capabilities, not 
only of affection but of reverence, to a very great extent, and 
once loving and respecting Mrs. Harcourt, not a command was 
neglected, nor a wish unfulfilled. Eleanor, on the contrary, 
though so gifted that teaching might have been a complete 
labor of love — by self-will, violent passions, and a most deter¬ 
mined want of veneration, even of common respect, a resolute 
opposition from her earliest years to the wishes of Mrs. Har¬ 
court, because she was merely a governess, so much her infe¬ 
rior in rank, rendered the task of education one of the most 
difficult and painful that can be conceived — increased from the 
injudicious partiality of Lord Delmont. It was not indeed the 
culpable negligence and dislike which Eleanor afterward dis¬ 
played toward her own, but originating in the fancy that Mrs. 
Harcourt was unjust, and Emmeline was her favorite. Lord 
Delmont was one of those unfortunately weak, irresolute cha¬ 
racters that only behold the surface of things, and are therefore 
utterly incapable of acting either with vigor or judgment. 
When he did venture into the precincts of his daughters’ apart¬ 
ments, he generally found Eleanor in sobs and tears, and Em¬ 
meline quietly pursuing her daily duties. That Mrs. Harcourt 
often entreated his influence with her younger pupil to change 
her course of conduct, he never remembered longer than the 
time of her expostulations lasted. Once or twice, indeed, he 
did begin to speak seriously, but Eleanor would throw her arms 
round his neck and kiss him, call him every endearing name, 
and beg him not to look so much like grave, cross Mrs. Har¬ 
court, or she should think she had indeed no one to love her; 
and her beautiful eyes would swell with tears, and her voice 
quiver, so that her gratified father would forget all his reproof, 
and give her some indulgence to make up for the injustice and 
harshness she encountered in the school-room. Her power 
once thus experienced, of course, was never resigned. Her 
father’s appearance in their study was always the signal for 
her tears, which she knew would confirm all his ideas of Mrs. 
Harcourt’s unjust partiality. 

And this idea was strengthened as they grew older, and 


22 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


masters for various accomplishments somewhat lightened Mrs. 
Harcourt’s actual labors. Emmeline’s steady application and 
moderate abilities were lost sight of in the applause always 
elicited by her younger sister, whose natural gifts alike in 
music, languages, and drawing had full play, directly she was 
released, even in part, from the hated thraldom of her go¬ 
verness. Lord Delmont had been accustomed to hear Elea¬ 
nor’s beauty extolled, and now the extraordinary versatility and 
brilliancy of her talents became the theme of every tongue. 
Professors are naturally proud of a pupil who does them more 
than justice, and Miss Eleanor Manvers was in consequence 
held up in very* many families, whom Lord Delmont only 
casually knew, and spoken of by very many again to him, 
knowing his weak point, and thus seeking to curry favor. Mrs. 
Iiarcourt was the only one from whom he never heard Elea¬ 
nor’s praises, and the only one who spoke in praise of Emme¬ 
line. It must then be wilful blindness on her part; and the 
father felt indignant, but in spite of himself had too much real 
respect for her, individually, to do more than redouble his in¬ 
dulgence to Eleanor. Emmeline could not complain of her 
father’s neglect, for he was both kind and affectionate to her; 
but she did sometimes wish she could be quite sure that he 
loved her as much as her sister; and her deep affection, unsus¬ 
pected by her father, rejected and laughed at by Eleanor, 
twined themselves closer and closer round Mrs. Iiarcourt and 
her brother Charles, on whom she actually doted, and who 
returned her affection with one quite as fond and warm as a 
happy, laughter-loving, frank-hearted boy had it in his power 
to bestow; yet even his holidays were times of as much suffer¬ 
ing as joy to his sister, from the violent quarrels which were 
continually taking place between him and Eleanor. Emme¬ 
line, happy in herself and Mrs. Harcourt’s companionship, 
could endure Eleanor’s determined supremacy, and, except 
where her conscience disapproved, yielded to her. But this 
could not be expected from Charles, who, despite his elder sis¬ 
ter’s gentle entreaties, would stand up for what he called her 
rights, and declare that, when he was at home, Miss Eleanor 
should not lord it over the whole family. Eleanor would, of 
course, first quarrel with him and then appeal to her father, 
who without hearing the case would give her right, and harshly 
condemn Charles, whose high spirit revolted; and unable to 
bear with his father’s weakness of character, as he ought to 
have done, would answer disrespectfully; and words succeeded 
words till Charles in a desperate passion would seek Emme- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


23 


line’s chamber, and his father, though he actually deeply loved 
and was very proud of his son, wished that the holidays were 
over, and Charles safe again at school. 

Trifling as domestic disputes may seem in description, they 
never fail in their painful reality to banish all lasting happiness. 
Emmeline could bear that her father should prefer Eleanor to 
herself, but that he should be unjust to her darling Charles, and 
that Charles should increase this evil by dispute and self-will, 
tried her severely, and obliged her often and often to fly to the 
solitude of her own chamber, lest her temper also should fail, 
and, to defend her brother, she should forget her duty to her 
father. But with her, Mrs. Harcourt’s lessons had indeed been 
blessed. The spirit of true, heartfelt piety, which she had 
sought to instil into her youthful charge, even more by the 
example of her daily life than by precepts, had become Emme¬ 
line’s, young as she still was, and enabled her not only to bear 
up against the constant petty annoyances of her home, but the 
heavy trial sustained in the death of Mrs. Harcourt, just as she 
was looking forward to her entrance into the gay world, under 
her maternal guardianship, and her parting with her brother, 
who, not two months afterward, left her to fulfil his darling 
wish of going to sea. 

At eighteen, then, Emmeline Manvers became the mistress 
of her father’s establishment, and had to encounter alone, not 
only the suffering of bereavement — in which, though Lord Del- 
mont sincerely respected Mrs. Harcourt, he could not sympa¬ 
thize, and at which, after the first shock and momentary remorse 
for her own conduct to so true a friend, Eleanor, if she did not 
actually rejoice, felt so very greatly relieved as to be irritated 
and angry at Emmeline’s quiet sorrow — but the separation from 
her brother and all the cares and disagreeables of such strict 
economy at home, as would permit the sustaining a proper posi¬ 
tion in society, so that the necessity of economy should not even 
be suspected. It was this regard of appearances which so 
chafed and pained Emmeline’s upright and independent spirit. 
Not that Lord Delmont, even for appearances, would go beyond 
his income; but still there were obliged concealments and other 
petty things which his daughter could not bear. Mrs. Har¬ 
court’s trial — a widow, compelled not only to teach for a sub¬ 
sistence, but to part with her only child, who had been adopted 
by a married sister, living in Italy — appeared to Emmeline’s 
ideas of truth and honor preferable to appearing richer than 
they really were. But on this subject, even less than on any 
other, she knew there was no chance of sympathy, and so she 


24 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


devoted all the energies of her matured and well-regulated mind 
to correcting the evil as much as it lay in her individual power; 
and in the year which her earnest entreaties prevailed on her 
father to permit her remaining in quiet retirement, before she 
entered the world, Lord Delmont was astonished at the greater 
' comfort and increase of dignity which pervaded his establish¬ 
ment. He never had chosen Mrs. Harcourt to interfere with 
his household concerns, believing that he conducted them him¬ 
self, when in reality he was completely governed by his house¬ 
keeper and steward. Mrs. Harcourt’s penetration had seen 
and regretted this, and had endeavored so to guide and instruct 
Emmeline, that when she became old enough to claim her right 
as mistress, the evil should be remedied. Could she have look¬ 
ed down on the child of her love, she would indeed have rejoiced 
at the beautiful fruition of her labors. Lord Delmont was not 
astonished and delighted only, a feeling of respect toward his 
gentle, his truthful child entered his heart, such as he had ex¬ 
perienced toward none, save her mother. Emmeline would in¬ 
deed have thought all her toils repaid, could she have known 
this, but the very feeling prevented the display of that caressing 
affection he still lavished on Eleanor, and the tears of his elder 
girl often fell thick and fast from the painful longing for one 
similar caress, one evidence on his part, that, though neither so 
beautiful, nor talented, nor engaging as Eleanor, she could yet 
minister to his comfort and increase his happiness. 

But Emmeline’s strong feeling of religion, while it enabled 
her to bear up against care and the constant and most painful 
feeling of loneliness, rendered the trial of beholding her sister’s 
wilful course of error, if possible, still more severe. She knew 
that all her affectionate counsels were worse than useless, that 
though Eleanor could be even caressingly affectionate when it 
served her purpose, would even listen to her at the moment of 
suffering from some too hasty impulse, she had no lasting influ¬ 
ence. And this became more and more evident as Eleanor 
became the almost constant companion of the Marchioness 
Lascelles, their only female relative. It was the evil influence 
of this lady which had so increased Eleanor’s natural repugnance 
to Mrs. Harcourt’s gentle sway, that for full two years before 
the latter’s death the flattery of Lady Lascelles and Eleanor’s 
passionate entreaties had prevailed on Lord Delmont to permit 
his daughter being more with her than with her sister and 
governess. Lady Lascelles was a woman of the world, utterly 
heartless, highly distinguished, and supremely fashionable. At 
her house all the ton of the beau-monde congregated, and 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


25 


scandal, frivolity, and esprit were the prevailing topics, diversi¬ 
fied with superficial opinions of the literature, arts, and politics 
of the day, and various sentimental episodes, which the lady of 
the house endured for the sake of variety. Here Eleanor, even 
at fourteen, was made a popular idol; her extreme beauty, her 
vivacity, her talents, her sharpness of repartee, all were admired, 
extolled, and encouraged. At seventeen she was introduced 
and initiated into all the mysteries of an ultra-fashionable life, 
and very speedily added to her other accomplishments all the 
arts of a finished and heartless coquette. 

With Lady Lascelles for her chaperon, it was hot very sur¬ 
prising that Emmeline Manvers shrunk in pain and dread from 
her introduction into society; but yet she knew her social duties 
too well to refuse, and, by an affectation of superior sanctity, 
which of course would have been the charge levelled against 
her, throw a sneer upon those holy feelings and spiritual prin¬ 
ciples which had become part of her very being. She entered 
into society, but the isolation to a heart like hers of the coteries 
of Lady Lascelles and her friends, was indeed most painful, and 
aggravated by the constant dread which the contemplation of 
Eleanor’s reckless career could not but occasion. 

But Emmeline’s trial of loneliness was happily not of very 
long duration. At a ball, which was less exclusive than the 
assemblages of Lady Lascelles, the attention of both sisters 
was attracted to a young man, by name Arthur Hamilton — 
Eleanor, from his distinguished appearance and extreme reserve, 
Emmeline, by the story attached to his name. His father had 
so distinguished himself in the amelioration of the peasantry 
and working classes in various parts of England, in addition to 
various services of a private and confidential nature from the 
home government to the courts abroad, that a viscountcy was 
offered to his acceptance. The message from royalty reached 
him on his death-bed, and though, from the faint and flickering 
accents with which he replied to the intended honor, it seemed 
as if he declined it, it was attributed to the natural feelings of a 
dying man, seeing the utter nothingness of earthly honors, and 
the title was generously proposed to his son. But Arthur Ha¬ 
milton had not been the pupil and friend of his father in vain. 
With a calm dignity and uncompromising independence, he 
declared that he had neither claim nor heirship to the reward 
of his father’s services; that he believed his parent would him¬ 
self have refused it, preferring the honorable distinction of being 
an untitled English gentleman, to the unvalued honor of a 
newly-created lordship. He respectfully thanked the govern- 
3 


26 


HOME INFLUENCE: 


ment for the honor they intended, but decisively refused it —. 
that his dearest inheritance was his father’s name. 

Of course this most extraordinary decision was canvassed 
again and again in the fashionable world, meeting there with 
very little appreciation, because it sprang from much higher 
feelings than the world could comprehend. By many he was 
imagined very little removed from insane — by others as actuat¬ 
ed by some ulterior motive, which would be sure to display 
itself some day — by all regarded with curiosity — by some few 
with earnest, quiet, heartfelt admiration: and of this number 
was not only ‘Emmeline Manvers, but her father; who, though 
weak and yielding, was not worldly, and could admire honor¬ 
able independence, even while some of his friends succeeded in 
persuading him that in this case it nearly reached romance. 

Arthur Hamilton was a star creating a sensation ; it signified 
little to Eleanor Manvers why or wherefore, but she fully re¬ 
solved to conquer him and chain him, as she had already done 
innumerable others, victim to her charms. His very reserve 
deepened her ardent longing, and the difficulty only strength¬ 
ened her resolution, but she tried in vain; for the first time she 
was completely and entirely foiled, and she disliked him accord¬ 
ingly — a dislike increasing to actual abhorrence — when the 
truth at length forced itself upon her, that he admired, con¬ 
versed with, evidently sought the society of her sister, whom 
she chose to charge with deceit and underhand dealing, with 
all the violence of angry passion and mortified defeat. 

Emmeline bore the storm calmly, for her conscience per¬ 
fectly acquitted her. She was not indeed indifferent to Arthur 
Hamilton, but she had tried hard to prevent the ascendency of 
affection, for she had heard that he still mourned the loss of a 
beloved one to whom he had been for many years engaged. 
And deep was her thankful joy, and unexpected indeed the 
intensity of her happiness, when six months after their first 
introduction he related to her the heavy trial of his early life, 
and concluded by asking her if she could indeed accept a heart 
which had so loved another, but which was now entirely her 
own, and happier than he had once believed it ever could be. 
The very frankness of his avowal increased the feelings of 
reverence and regard he had already inspired, and to the great 
delight, and no little pride of Lord Delmont, his elder daughter, 
who had been by Lady Lascelles’ coterie so overlooked and 
neglected, who had been by many for years considered a mere 
foil to the beauty and talent of her younger sister, was united 
before she was twenty, to a man who — however his high prin- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


27 


ciples might have excited laughter as high-flown romance, his 
unbending integrity and dislike of the pleasures and amuse¬ 
ments, but too aften the sole pursuit of the wealthy, exposed 
him to the charge of severity and eccentricity — was yet sought, 
and his connection deemed a most desirable partie by all and 
every family who had marriageable daughters. 


CHAPTER JV. 

RESTROSPECTIVE.-EFFECTS OF COQUETRY.-OBEDIENCE 

AND DISOBEDIENCE. 

Eleanor’s unfounded dislike toward Arthur Hamilton did 
not decrease when he became her brother-in-law ; she chose to 
believe that he had injured her by being the only one who had 
remained proof against all the fascinations she had thrown in 
his way. Even in her childhood, if any one chanced to notice 
Emmeline more than herself, it was considered a mortal .offence, 
and the person who had so offended was scarcely spoken to 
again. Therefore that Emmeline should be married before 
herself, and to the man she intended to captivate, but not to 
love , or -wed, was an offence visited upon her sister by the 
withdrawal of her speech for six months, and on Mr. Hamilton 
by an insulting haughtiness of demeanor toward him, at which 
he only smiled ; and, to her extreme annoyance, she found that 
even as she had failed to fascinate, she equally failed to offend. 
He would speak to her, would treat her with courtesy, and 
the quiet familiarity of an older relative — and more, actually 
remonstrate with her conduct whenever he thought it wrong. 
It was the recollection of this time, yet more than actual pre¬ 
sent feeling, which had occasioned the mistaken impressions she 
had infused into both her children, of the extreme severity and 
harshness of their uncle, thoughtlessly indeed, for the present 
was always all to her, and if she did think that they might one 
day be under his charge, she little imagined the unhappiness 
and mischief which their supposition of his unbending stern¬ 
ness might engender. 

To Emmeline, the change in her young life w r as so mar¬ 
vellous, so complete — care, anxiety, loneliness, that sinking of 
the whole frame and heart, from the absence of appreciation 



28 


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and social kindness, had so departed, leaving in their stead 
such an intensity of quiet domestic happiness, that it was long 
before her full heart could believe it reality, and rest secure. 
She had always longed for one to reverence, to cling to, and 
her husband gave her room for both. As his betrothed, even 
before their marriage, she had been introduced to very different 
society to that of the marchioness ; she beheld him reverenced, 
loved, appealed to by the wisest and the best men, often 
older than himself. That this man should so love, cherish, and 
actually reverence her — no wonder that under the magic of 
such feelings her character matured, displaying such engaging 
and unsuspected qualities,, that even her husband often looked 
at her with astonishment, playfully asking her if she could be 
the same calm, almost too quiet, and seemingly too cold Emme¬ 
line Manvers whom he had first seen. Her very talents, which 
had seemed worthless, compared to her sister’s, were called 
forth by her husband. She found that her voice and her touch 
on either piano or harp, could give him exquisite pleasure, and 
this once discovered, she made such improvement as almost to 
surprise herself. She found the sketches taken from the various 
lovely spots in the vicinity of their noble seat, and in which 
Devonshire abounds, delighted him, and when Eleanor did 
visit Oakwood, she was astounded at the various beautiful 
drawings, which evinced the employment of that leisure which 
she had declared must be even to the quiet Emmeline a horrid 
bore. 

To Lord Delmont the change in his daughter was much 
more astonishing than to her husband. He was very often at 
Oakwood, (particularly when a little grandson was added to the 
happy party,) for his home under Eleanor’s extravagant and 
heedless management had lost all the comfort that Emmeline 
had bestowed. He had begun, too, to discover that his darling, 
his still favorite Eleanor, was not faultless. Emmeline’s gene¬ 
rous assistance and determination to spare her father all discom¬ 
fort, had concealed Eleanor’s personal extravagance from him ; 
but after her marriage, as Eleanor’s fashionable amusements in¬ 
creased, so did the quantity and amount of her bills, which, as 
the young lady did not seem inclined to settle them, were sent 
to her father. Lord Delmont was painfully startled, and with 
his usual want of judgment spoke to Eleanor at the very mo¬ 
ment that he felt most angry; unaccustomed to reproof from 
him, she retorted with equal passion, and a violent altercation 
ensued, which ended in Eleanor ordering the carriage, and 
driving to Lady Lascelles, declaring she could not think of 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


29 


returning home, till her father had sufficiently recovered his 
senses for her to do so in safety. 

The interference of Emmeline at length succeeded in restor¬ 
ing peace, but Lord Delmont’s eyes had been rudely opened, 
and, as is unhappily too often the case with those weak cha¬ 
racters where over-indulgence of childhood has occasioned 
those annoyances of ungoverned youth, he became irritable and 
sometimes even harsh with Eleanor, which conduct threw her 
still more with Lady Lascelles. As to joining society with Mr. 
and Mrs. Hamilton, when they were in London, Eleanor would 
not hear of it. But to her sister’s great joy, and some surprise, 
she accepted an invitation to Oakwood a short time after little 
Percy’s birth ; and, still more surprising, condescended to make 
herself agreeable. The London season had tired her, and she 
thought she might just as well be dull on the banks of the Dart 
in August, and September, as in some stupid watering-place. 
Mr. Hamilton, despite her dislike, which she cared not to avow, 
she found could be at least very entertaining ; her father was 
more like his former self, her sister far more delightful and 
lovely than she ever thought she could be, and her nephew cer¬ 
tainly a pretty little plague. Then Mr. Hamilton had a beauti¬ 
ful horse entirely for her use, and she rode exceedingly well, 
and was greatly admired. She was seized with an exploring 
mania, and dragged Emmeline to every old ruin and dark wood 
within ten miles of Oakwood. Altogether the impression she 
left behind her, after a two months’ visit, was such as to ease 
Mrs. Hamilton’s great anxiety, more especially as it appeared, 
from certain private conversations, that her affections were for 
the first time really engaged, and Emmeline had always fondly 
hoped that when that should be the case, Eleanor would be¬ 
come a very different person. Alas ! penetrative as she was, 
she had not yet learned her sister’s character; simply because 
utter fieartlessness in any woman she could not comprehend. 

Her visit to her father in London, in the winter, removed all 
their rising hopes, and caused such increased and intense anx¬ 
iety, as so to injure her already delicate health that her hus¬ 
band bore her back to Oakwood a full month before they had 
originally intended. Whether or not Eleanor loved Lord Fitz- 
clair, it was impossible to determine; but that he devotedly, 
passionately loved her, was only too evident, not only to the 
world, but to herself; and this once confirmed, she left no me¬ 
thod untried to torment, and so, as she declared, to try if his 
affections were worth having. He was half an. Italian, and had 
inherited all the strong, fierce passions of that country, without 


30 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


one atom of self-control. Mr. Hamilton knew him well, far bet¬ 
ter than he knew himself, and conjured him to withdraw from 
the society of one who could never make him happy, and whose 
capricious conduct was so likely to render him desperate and 
miserable ; he reasoned, entreated in vain. She only wants 
to try the strength of my love,” w r as his sole reply ; <r and were 
she to torment health and life away, it will never change — she 
will be mine yet.” 

And to the astonishment of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, two 
months afterward he proposed in form, and actually was ac¬ 
cepted, with the sole condition that their engagement should be 
kept secret till it should please Eleanor to name the wedding 
day, which could not be at least for six or eight months. 

This engagement might have eased anxiety, but the condi¬ 
tion increased it, especially, as instead of coming to Oakwood, 
as Emmeline had asked and hoped, the latter part of the sum¬ 
mer and autumn was to be spent in Cheltenham with a very 
gay party, in which Eleanor was still of course the star. Mrs. 
Hamilton entered the nursery one morning earlier than usual, 
for her infant had not been well the night b^bre, and she had 
already experienced the care as well as the joy of a mother. 
Her babe was better, and as he lay smilingly and happily in 
her lap, and watched the eager movements of his brother, she 
was only sensible of pleasure. The nurse had arranged the 
chairs in a long line, that Master Percy might, with their help, 
walk the whole length of the large and airy room. The feat 
mightily pleased the little gentleman, who, having acquired the 
venerable age of fifteen months, liked better to feel his feet 
than crawl on the floor, or be carried about on any limbs but 
his own. Every two or three paces he stood nearly alone, and 
burst into a loud merry laugh, which was always echoed by a 
crow of joy from his little brother. 

“ Take care, Percy, love, don’t fall and frighten mamma,” 
said his young mother, who was watching him with such plea¬ 
sure as to send for his father to share it. When her son, to 
prove how well he obeyed her commands to take care, stood 
for a second without any support, and then ran quite alone 
across the room, and with a yet louder laugh hid his rosy face 
in her lap. Mrs. Hamilton fondly kissed the little nestling 
head, and at that moment her husband entered the room. 
“ Dearest Arthur,” she eagerly exclaimed, “ I was actually 
foolish enough to send for you. Herbert seems quite well; I 
was, it seems, needlessly alarmed, and Percy has this mo¬ 
ment — ” She stopped in sudden terror, for there was an ex- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


31 


pression on her husband’s countenance of such unusual agita¬ 
tion, that though he tried to smile when he heard her words, 
she could not conquer her alarm, more than to say, in a cares¬ 
sing voice to her little boy — 

“ Will not Percy run to papa, and ask him why he looks so 
sad ? ” 

The child looked up in her face, and then, as his father held 
out his arms to him, let go his mother’s dress, and obeyed her. 
Mr. Hamilton caught him to his heart, held him for above a 
minute, kissed him fondly, and left the nursery without utter¬ 
ing a single word. 

“ Let me take Master Herbert, ma’am,” said the head nurse 
respectfully, for she saw that her mistress’s unexpressed alarm 
had nearly overpowered her; and in a few minutes Emmeline 
was with her husband, whose agitation was so excessive, that 
even his wife’s presence, for the moment, had scarcely power 
to calm him. 

The tale was soon told. Eleanor’s conduct since her en¬ 
gagement had been such as to excite the displeasure, not of her 
father alone, but actually of the marchioness; who, though a 
weak and worldly woman, had yet some idea of propriety. As 
a near relation of Lord Delmont, Eleanor’s engagement with 
Lord Fitzclair was of course told to her, and again and again 
she warned her that she was going too far, and might lose her 
lover before she was aware of it; but Eleanor only laughed at 
her, and at last won her over to the belief that it was certainly 
better to cure Fitzclair of his jealous tendency before marriage 
than afterward. Lord Delmont’s reproofs she was wont to 
silence, by invariably making them the signal of mortifying and 
annoying Lord Fitzclair still more than usual. Yet still at 
times she relented, and so strengthened the love she had excit¬ 
ed, so enhanced her own fascinations, that all the agony he had 
endured and was still, he knew, to endure, by an incomprehen¬ 
sible contradiction, riveted her power and hastened his own 
doom. Weak in all things but his love, he could not demand 
as his actual right the publication of their engagement. Elea¬ 
nor vowed if he did till she permitted him, she would have 
nothing more to say to him. She knew, though she did no't 
say it, that once made known, a chain would be thrown round 
her actions, which she did not choose to endure. And father, 
lover, and friend, all feeling she was wrong, and the first and 
last repeatedly telling her so, had yet neither of them the re¬ 
solution to contend with her, and compel the proper course. 

A month of their visit to Cheltenham so passed, when Elea- 


32 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


nor’s attention was arrested by a new actor on the scene. She 
had begun to tire of her present satellites, and a young military 
captain, whose furlough from India had just expired, and whose 
pale face, somewhat melancholy expression, and very elegant 
figure, presented a new object for conquest impossible to be 
resisted; and it was unhappily only too easily achieved. She 
made no secret of her admiration, speaking of him in such terms 
to her intended husband as to excite anew every jealous feel¬ 
ing. It was easy for Captain Fortescue to discover Fitzclair 
was his rival; but believing himself decidedly the object of 
Eleanor’s preference, he increased his attentions, little imagin 
ing the storm he was exciting, the more fearful from its deter 
mined suppression. Lord Delmont interfered several times, 
not only by reproaches to Eleanor, but by determined coldness 
to her new suitor. Finding at length that her encouragement 
actually neared a criminal extent, and after a desperately 
stormy interview, he solemnly declared that if she did not dis¬ 
miss Captain Fortescue at once, he would shame her in the 
face of the whole world, by proclaiming her engagement with 
the young marquis. Eleanor in equal anger ^declared that if 
he threatened, so too could she; and if he tormented her any 
more she would prevent all publication of her engagement by 
herself snapping it asunder, and pledging her faith to Captabl 
Fortescue. This was too much even for Lord Delmont. De¬ 
claring if she did so, a father’s heaviest malediction should fall 
on her head, he hastily left her; and Eleanor very composedly 
went to prepare for an excursion on horseback with Fortescue, 
Fitzclair, and others. 

When Lord Delmont’s passions were once roused, even his 
ordinarily slender judgment entirely forsook him, and he did 
that which at another time, knowing Fitzclair as he did, he 
would have shrunk from. He sought him, while still exaspe¬ 
rated, upbraided him for his weakness in permitting Eleanor’s 
unprincipled conduct, and warned him that, if he did not adopt 
some strong measures to prevent it, he would certainly lose her 
entirely. 

The young man heard him without reply; but his face grew 
livid, and he clenched his hand till the blood started from the 
nails, and in this mood of concentrated passion joined the rid¬ 
ing party. The exercise itself is, to some temperaments, un¬ 
usually exciting, and the determined coldness of Eleanor to 
himself, and the eagerly-received devotion of Fortescue, mad¬ 
dened him. He demanded an interview with Tier on theii 
re*urn home, struggled to speak calmly, expostulated, and, 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


33 


finally, reproached. Eleanor, already irritated, and, beyond 
all, that her lover, in general so obsequious and humble, should 
dare to call her to account for mere amusement, combined with 
the recollection of Captain Fortescue’s flattering vows and 
willing homage, excited her to an extent of which she was her¬ 
self unconscious, inasmuch as she firmly believed, whatever she 
might say then, a few soft words would speedily obliterate. 
She told him that really his jealous temperament was beyond 
all endurance; that he certainly must intend her to despise 
and abhor him; and that the contrast he presented to Captain 
Fortescue was such as to make her most heartily wish to put 
an end to their engagement, as she felt quite sure it must only 
end in misery for both; and, without waiting for a reply, she 
haughtily brushed by him, and disappeared. 

Of the extent of Fitzclair’s passion Eleanor had not the 
least idea, and this is saying a great deal, for she generally 
exaggerated her own power. She believed she had inflicted 
pain, but not as much as he deserved; and determined that 
she would torment him yet more at the ball that evening. But 
to her extreme mortification he did not appear, and there was 
a vague dread on her spirits as she retired for the night, which 
prevented any thing like rest. His absence had excited sur¬ 
prise in all, especially Lady Lascelles, who knew that to leave 
Eleanor entirely to the attentions of young Fortescue was so 
unprecedented as to bode no good. But the wildest conjectures 
were far from reality. The very next morning all Cheltenham 
was thrown into the most painful excitement by the incompre¬ 
hensible and most extraordinary fact of the suicide of Lord 
Fitzclair; by what occasioned, plunged into such mystery that 
nothing but sudden aberration of mind was imagined, a belief 
justified by the very peculiar temperament and manners of the 
young nobleman during his sojourn with them. His will, a 
valuable present, with a few lines of regard to his faithful 
attendant, and a letter addressed to Arthur Hamilton, Esq., 
were the sole evidences that the awful deed had not been com¬ 
mitted 'without some preparation; but as that was often the 
case with madness itself, it excited no remark. 

The state of Eleanor’s mind, when these awful tidings were 
communicated to her, which they were by her father, in his agi¬ 
tation and anger, without the least preparation, we leave our 
readers to imagine. Hardened, heartless, wilful as she was, 
she was still a woman, and a very young one, and till Captain 
Fortescue appeared, had loved, as far as it was in her nature, 
Lord Fitzclair. To believe that she had nothing to do with 


34 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


his miserable end was an attempt so vain and hollow, that even 
she shrunk from the hopeless struggle to realize it; remorse, in 
all its torturing, unmitigated anguish, took possession of her, 
but instead of leading her to penitence, and thence the hope 
of peace, it urged her to a course of action from which she 
imagined there was no withdrawing ; and which must in time, 
by removing her from all painful associations, lessen her pre¬ 
sent misery. 

For three days and nights she never quitted her own apart 
ment, and then joined her usual circles without the smallest 
evidence of the internal agony which was still hers. It was 
very easy to displace paleness by artificial roses, and her gay 
smiles and joyous sallies were tempered only by a judiciously- 
expressed horror when the late event was discussed before her, 
supposed natural to one who had known him so intimately; 
but the hours of loneliness which followed this conduct in 
society were terrible indeed. By a strange contrariety of feel¬ 
ing, her better nature longed for Emmeline, and her artificial, 
which had, alas ! only too forcibly become her natural self, 
felt as if she would leave the kingdom rather than encounter 
the mild, sorrowful glance of those penetrating eyes. 

Lord Delmont was himself in a most pitiable condition ; even 
minor evils had always been great to him, and the effect of this, 
the wish to take Eleanor away from Captain Fortescue’s in¬ 
creased and annoying attentions, and yet the dread that doing 
so would connect her with Fitzclair’s death, so distracted him 
as to render him really ill — information which instantly brought 
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton to Cheltenham. 

Some young wives and mothers might have felt it hard that 
their domestic enjoyment should so continually have been dis¬ 
turbed and annoyed from the faults of others ; but Emmeline 
had been accustomed to trace every thing that created personal 
suffering to the highest source, and feel that it was good for 
her, or it would not be ; a conviction that enabled her to bear 
with and still to love the erring one that was the visible cause 
of pain. 

Eleanor was at a gay ball the night of her arrival, and Mrs. 
Hamilton requested she might not be informed of it till the fol¬ 
lowing day. About half an hour before her usual hour of rising 
after such scenes, she entered her sister’s room. All around 
her lay the ornaments of the previous evening, looking so 
strange, gaudy, and faded in the darkened room, and judged 
by the calmer feelings of the morning. A sensation of intense 
depression crept over Emmeline as she gazed, increasing as 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


35 


she looked on the face of the sleeper, which, divested of its 
unnatural bloom, looked so fearfully wan and haggard. Her 
beautiful hair lay in tangled masses on her damp brow, and as 
Emmeline gently tried to remove it, Eleanor started and awoke. 

“ Is it already time to get up ? ” she said languidly, and only 
half unclosing her eyes ; “ I feel as if I had not slept at all. 
Am I dreaming ? ” she added, starting up, “ or have I slept in 
one place, and awoke in another ? Am I at Oakwood ? ” 

“ No, dearest Eleanor ; will you not welcome me to Malvern 
House ? ” 

The voice, the look, seemed to thrill through her; her tem¬ 
ples were throbbing, her heart weighed down, as it always was 
when she first awoke, with an undefinable sense of guilt and 
pain; she tried to be cold, proud, reserved, but it would not 
do, and she suddenly flung her arms round her sister’s neck, 
and burst into agonized tears. 

It was a most unexpected greeting, and Mrs. Hamilton ar¬ 
gued hopefully from it. Alas ! the unwonted softening only 
lasted one brief half hour. She left her at Eleanor’s entreaty 
while dressing, and when she returned, though the reckless 
girl told her with a half smile that she was ready for her lec¬ 
ture, for she could only have come from Oakwood to give her 
one; and that however severe her words might be, she could 
not alter her tone, that must be kind, in spite of herself. Yet 
Emmeline could not succeed in convincing her how wrongly, 
how cruelly she had acted. Eleanor would persist that she 
was not in the least to blame, and that poor Fitzclair’s fearful 
end was only owing to* his own violent passions; in fact, that 
he must have been out of his mind, and that, though it was 
certainly very dreadful, she had perhaps escaped a very terri¬ 
ble doom ; but speak as she might, Emmeline was not deceived 
as to the agony she was actually enduring. Finding, however, 
ihat all her gentle efforts were useless, that even the perusal of 
Fitzclair’s brief lines to her husband — which Eleanor insisted 
on seeing, and in which he deplored his madness in not having 
followed his advice, and flown from her presence, and bade 
him take his forgiveness to her, and say, that the means he had 
adopted would, he trusted, dissolve their engagement to her 
satisfaction — had no effect, save in causing her to turn so 
deadly pale, that her sister was convinced nothing but an al¬ 
most supernatural effort of pride preserved her from fainting. 
She desisted; hoping against hope that Eleanor would yet 
repent and become a different being. She knew harshness 
would only harden, and so she tried to prevail on her father to 


36 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


treat her as usual, but this Lord Delmont could not do. It is 
strange how often we find those parents who have been over- 
indulgent to childhood, unusually harsh to the faults of youth. 
Weak characters, also, when driven to anger, are always more 
violent than firmer ones ; and, certainly, Eleanor’s continued 
haughtiness and coldness, as if she were the injured one, did 
not tend to calm him. 

And his angry feelings were unfortunately but too soon ag¬ 
gravated by a proposal in form from Captain Fortescue for the 
hand of Eleanor. Without a moment’s delay he despatched a 
decided and almost insulting refusal to the young soldier, and 
then sought his daughter, and vented on her the anger and vex¬ 
ation which overpowered him, upbraiding her not only with 
the death of Fitzclair, but for having dared so to encourage 
young Fortescue as to give him courage for his audacious pro¬ 
posal. To his astonishment, he was heard without any attempt 
at reply; but he would have been startled, could he have seen 
the pallid cheek, compressed lip, and clenched hand with which, 
when he had left her, Elearnor muttered — 

“ Father, if it be sin to leave you, be it on your own head. I 
would have wedded with your consent, had you permitted it; 
but now my destiny is fixed. There is no peace in England: 
at least let me be spared the agony of breaking another loving 
heart.” 

Nearly three weeks rolled on, and Eleanor’s extraordinary 
submission, and even in some degree withdrawal from society, 
(for which Mrs. Hamilton’s arrival was a good excuse,) caused 
her father’s irritation against her almost entirely to subside. 
That she passed several hours each day apart from her sister, 
excited no surprise. Emmeline was thankful even for her 
change of deportment, but nothing confidential ever again passed 
between them. That reports were floating about, connecting 
the names of Miss Manvers and the late Lord Fitzclair, seemed 
little heeded by Eleanor, though they caused natural vexation 
to her family. About this time an invitation arrived for Elea¬ 
nor from a lady of rank, slightly known to her father, and living 
ten miles from Cheltenham, in a beautiful villa, at which she 
expected a select party of fashionables to ruralize for a week or 
two. There was nothing in the note to excite the dread that 
weighed on Mrs. Hamilton’s spirits, as Eleanor carelessly threw 
it to her for her perusal, but she would not express it, as Lord 
Delmont seemed inclined that Eleanor should accept it, know¬ 
ing that the lady was much too exclusive for Captain Fortescue 
to join her guests, and believing that Eleanor’s apparent indif- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


37 


ference to the visit originated from that cause. Telling her he 
was so gratified by her having devoted so many evenings to 
her sister, he added, she had his full consent to go if she liked, 
as he could better spare her than when Emmeline returned to 
Oakwood. She quietly thanked him, but evinced no particular 
pleasure. 

The day before her intended departure, the sisters were sit¬ 
ting together, and little Percy, who now ran firmly without any 
falls, was playing about the room. He had already displayed 
a high spirit and passionate temper, with their general accom¬ 
paniment, self-will, even in trifles, that Mrs. Hamilton felt 
would render her task a trying one; but she was as firm as 
she was gentle, and faced the pain of contradicting her darling 
bravely: — 

“Do not touch that, Percy, love,” she said, as her little boy 
stretched out his hand toward a beautiful but fragile toy, that 
stood with other knickknacks on a low table. The child looked 
laughingly and archly toward her, and withdrew his hand, but 
did not move from the table. 

“ Come here, Percy, you have not played with these pretty 
things for a long time;” and she took from her work-box some 
gayly colored ivory balls, which had been his favorite playthings, 
but just at present they had lost their charm, and the young 
gentleAan did not move. 

Mrs. Hamilton knelt down by him, and said quietly: 

“ My Percy will not disobey mamma, will he ? ” 

“ Me want that; ” he replied, in the pretty coaxing tone of 
infancy; and he twined his little round arms caressingly round 
her neck. 

Mrs. Hamilton felt very much tempted to indulge him, but 
she resisted it. 

“ But that is not a fit plaything for you, love ; besides, it is 
not mine, and we must not touch what is not ours. Come and 
see if we cannot find something just as pretty, that you may 
have.” 

And'after some minutes’ merry play in'her lap his mother 
hoped he had forgotten it; but the little gentleman was not, 
he thought, to be so governed. The forbidden plaything was 
quietly grasped, and he seated himself on the ground, in silent 
but triumphant glee. 

Surprised at his sudden silence, Mrs. Hamilton looked toward 
him. It was his first act of decided disobedience;, and she 
knew she must not waver. Young as he was, he had already 
learned to know when she was displeased, and when she de- 
4 


38 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


sired him very gravely to give her the toy, he passionately 
threw it down, and burst into a violent fit of crying. His nurse 
took him struggling from the room, and Mrs. Hamilton quietly 
resumed her work; but there was such an expression of pain 
in her countenance, that Eleanor exclaimed, 

“ Emmeline! I have been watching you for the last half 
hour, and I cannot comprehend you. Do explain yourself.” 

“ I will if I can ; ” and Mrs. Hamilton looked up, and smiled. 

“ Why would you not let that poor little Percy have that 
toy ? ” 

“ Because it would have been encouraging his touching or 
taking every thing he sees, whether proper for him or not.” 

“ But he could not understand that.” 

“ Not now, perhaps ; but I wish him to know that when I 
speak, he must obey me. It is, I think, a mistaken doctrine, 
that we ought to give children a reason for all we desire them 
to do. Obedience can then never be prompt, as it ought to be. 
And, in fact, if we wait until they are old enough to under¬ 
stand the reasons for a command, the task will be much more 
difficult, from the ascendency which wilfulness may already 
have obtained.” 

“ But then why were you so cruel as to send the poor child 
up-stairs? Was it not enough to take the toy from him?” 

“ Not quite ; for him to remember that he must not fouch it 
again.” 

“And do you really think he will not ? ” 

“ I can only hope so, Eleanor ; but I must not be disheart¬ 
ened if he do. He is an infant still, and I cannot expect him 
to learn such a difficult lesson as obedience in one, two, or six 
lessons.” 

“And will he love you as much as if you had given it to 
him ? ” 

“ Not at the moment, perhaps, but when he is older he will 
love me more. And it is that hope which reconciles me to the 
pain which refusing to indulge him costs me now.” 

“And voluntarily you will bear the pain which had almost 
brought tears into the eyes of the severe and stoical Mrs. Ham¬ 
ilton ! ” exclaimed Eleanor. 

“ It was a foolish weakness, my dear Eleanor, for which my 
husband would have chidden me ; but there must be pain to a 
mother if called upon to exert authority, when inclination so 
strongly points to indulgence.” 

“ Well, if ever I have any thing to do with children, I cer¬ 
tainly shall not be half as particular as you are, Emmeline. I 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


39 


really cannot imagine what harm gratifying myself and Percy 
could possibly have done.” 

“ If ever you have children, my dear Eleanor, may you have 
strength of mind and self-control sufficient to forget self, and 
refuse the gratification of the present moment for the welfare 
of future years ! ” 

Mrs. Hamilton spoke impressively, and something, either in 
her words or tone, caused the blood to rush into Eleanor’s 
cheeks, and she hastily walked to the window; then, as abruptly 
returning, she kissed her sister, a very rare token of affection, 
and declaring she was much too good for her to understand, 
quitted the room. 

The following day, dressed for her visit, and only waiting for 
the carriage, Eleanor, accompanied by Mrs. Hamilton and her 
little boys, entered the same apartment. Though not in general 
fond of nursing, Eleanor had taken Herbert in her arms, and 
was playing with him with unusual fondness ; Percy, who had 
not seen the tempting plaything since his banishment the pre¬ 
ceding day, the moment his eye caught it, to the astonishment 
of Eleanor, ran up to his mother, and lisping, “ Me no touch 
that — Percy good boy now,” held up his little face lovingly to 
hers, and with a very pardonable feeling of delight, Mrs. Ham¬ 
ilton lifted him up and covered him with kisses. The feelings 
which thrilled through Eleanor at that moment she might in¬ 
deed have found it difficult to explain, but she was so conscious 
of a change of countenance as to hide her face on Herbert’s 
head. It might have been obedience and disobedience brought 
so suddenly and strangely in contrast — and who were the 
actors ? an infant and herself. For a minute she recovered, 
stricken with sudden and agonized remorse ; but it was too 
late, she had gone too far, and the announcement of the car¬ 
riage was a relief from that bitter moment of painful indecision. 
Placing her baby nephew in his nurse’s arms,, she said, caress¬ 
ingly, “ Will not Percy give Lina some of those kisses as well 
as mamma ? ” The child threw one little arm round her neck, 
and the other round that of his mother, and then burst into a 
merry laugh at thus seeing himself as it were a link between 
them. Never had it seemed to Eleanor that she had loved and 
admired her sister as she did at that moment; all the neglect, 
unkindness, she had shown her, all the sarcasm and satire, of 
which, either before or behind her, she had so often made her 
the victim, combined with an intense, but how painfully vain 
longing to have resembled her in the remotest degree, rather 
than be the character which had never before appeared so de- 


40 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


graded, so hateful — almost overpowered her — a convulsive 
sob escaped her as she clasped Emmeline in a close embrace, 
and almost choked her hurried good-by ! Lord Delmont and 
Mr. Hamilton were in the hall, and the former was surprised 
and delighted at the warmth with which his usually reckless 
child returned his kiss and farewell; the carriage drove off 
leaving unusual hope and cheerfulness behind it. Alas ! in 
one short fortnight every rising hope was blighted, Emmeline’s 
momentary dread fulfilled, and Lord Delmont experiencing, in 
all its agony, 

“ How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is, 

To have a thankless child! ” 


CHAPTER Y. 

A HEART AND HOME IN ENGLAND.-A HEART AND HOME 

IN INDIA. 

From the moment Arthur Hamilton returned to Chelten¬ 
ham with the painful intelligence that he had arrived at Leith 
only in time to witness the departure of the beautiful vessel 
which contained Captain Fortescue and the exquisitely lovely 
bride who had, it seemed, turned the heads of all the usually 
quiet Scotsmen who had seen her, Lord Delmont gradually 
sunk. The agony of losing her forever — for so he regarded 
her departure for, and residence in India for an indeterminate 
time — conquered every other feeling. Her conduct had 
caused emotions of anguish far too deep for the relieving sen¬ 
sation of anger. The name of the lady from whose house and 
by whose connivance she had eloped, he was never heard to 
breathe; but, if ever casually mentioned before him, every 
feature would become convulsed, and he would instantly leave 
the room. Often and often he accused his own harshness as 
the cause of driving her from him, and then came, with over¬ 
whelming bitterness, the thought that if he had lately been 
harsh, surely the recollection of all the indulgent fondness he 
had shown demanded some gratitude in return. If she had 
but written, had but expressed one wish for his continued love, 
one regret for his present pain! But no letter came, and the 
contending but all-depressing emotions so completely under- 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


41 


mined a constitution never very strong, and already worn by 
care, that when another and still heavier trial came, he sunk 
at once beneath it. 

Though Eleanor had been his favorite, his feelings of pride 
and hope had greatly centred in his son, whose career, in five 
years’ active service on board a man-of-war had been such as 
to raise him already to a lieutenancy, and excite every grati¬ 
fying emotion, not only in his immediate family, but in a large 
circle of admiring friends. Mrs. Hamilton’s love for her 
brother had naturally increased, strong as it always had been, 
even in childhood — and the visits which Charles had been 
enabled to make to Oakwood, brief in duration as they were 
compelled to be, had always been fraught with heartfelt, joyous 
happiness, not only to herself but to her husband. The pain 
and anxiety attendant on Eleanor’s elopement, and the dread 
of its effects on Lord Delmont, had for two or three months 
been the sole subject of thought; but at length, and, like a 
fearful flash bringing a new sorrow to light, it pressed upon 
them that it was long after the period that intelligence of 
Charles ought to have been received. Still hoping against 
hope, not only the Delmont family, but all who had friends and 
relatives on board the Leander, imagined that she might have 
drifted from her course, or been engaged on some secret and 
distant expedition, but that intelligence concerning her would 
and must soon come. Alas I after months of agonizing sus¬ 
pense, information was received that several planks and masts, 
bearing evidence of fire as well as water, and some sea-chests, 
bearing names, only too soon recognized as those of some of 
the Leander’s crew, had been cast off the coast of Barbary, 
and there could be no more doubt that death or slavery — that 
fearful slavery which the bombardment of Algiers had so dis¬ 
played to European eyes — was the portion of all those be¬ 
loved ones, for whom so many aching hearts and eyes had 
watched and wept in vain. It was a trial so terrible that Mrs. 
Hamilton felt at first as if even submission had departed from 
her; and she could almost have rebelled in spirit against the 
inscrutable decree, that had consigned one so free from vice and 
evil, so full of happiness and worth, to a doom so terrible. 
Much as she had loved and reverenced her husband before, 
she seemed never to have felt his worth and tenderness till 
then. It was his sympathy, his strength, that recalled her to a 
sense of her duty, and gave her power to endure, by a realiza¬ 
tion once more of that submissiveness to a Father’s will, which 
had never before failed her. But time, though it softened the 
4 * 


42 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


first anguish, had no power over the memories of this brother, 
not even when the increasing cares and joys of maternity so 
fully engrossed her, that the present and the future of her 
children appeared to have banished all of her own past. 

Lord Delmont did not survive the mournful tidings of the 
certain wreck of the Leander above two months; but his re¬ 
leased spirit did not meet that of his son. Charles was not 
dead. He toiled as a slave long years in living death before 
there was even a partial amelioration of his sufferings. But 
no tidings of him ever came ; a young child of three years old, 
a distant branch of the Manvers family, became Lord Del¬ 
mont. 

Years rolled on, and Mrs. Hamilton’s lot was so full of tran¬ 
quil happiness, so fraught with innumerable daily joys of a lov¬ 
ing wife and devoted mother, that her prayer was ever rising 
for guidance and gratitude, that prosperity might not unfit her 
for the dark days of trial and adversity, when they should 
come. That she had cares as well as joys could not be other¬ 
wise, when so intensely anxious to bring up her children with 
more regard to their spiritual and moral welfare than even the 
cultivation of their intellect. She was one of those who thought 
still more of the training of the heart than of the mind, believ¬ 
ing that were the. first properly awakened, the latter would 
need little incitement to exertion. Two girls had been the sole 
addition to her family. . 

One other wish, and one of many years’ standing, Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton had it in her power to fulfil. From childhood she had 
been accustomed to think of Lucy Harcourt as one, to whom it 
might one day be in her power to return the heavy debt of 
gratitude she owed her mother; she had been accustomed to 
correspond with her from very early years; Mrs. Ilarcourt 
delighting jn creating a mutual interest between her pupil and 
the child from whom circumstances had so sadly separated her. 
When therefore an event of a very painful nature to Miss 
Harcourt’s individual feelings compelled her — as the only 
hope of regaining peace, and strengthening her for the arduous 
duty of instruction, which she knew, as a single woman, was 
her sole source of independent subsistence — she had no 
scruple in accepting that friendship which Mrs. Hamilton had 
so warmly proffered. A very few days of personal intercourse 
sufficed for mutual conviction, that correspondence had not 
deceived in the favorable impressions of either. Miss Ilarcourt 
found, indeed, the friend her aching spirit needed; and Mrs. 
Hamilton, long before the months of repose which she had 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


43 


insisted should forestall the commencement of exertion were 
over, rejoiced in the conviction that the daughter of her beloved 
and regretted friend was indeed well fitted for that position in 
her family — her helper in the moral and intellectual training 
of her daughters — which her vivid fancy had often pictured 
as so tilled. They were indeed but infants when Miss Harcourt 
arrived; but Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton found means to overrule 
the honorable scruples which, on the part of Lucy, seemed at 
first against their plan, and in her gradually returning health 
and peace, Mrs. Hamilton not only rejoiced, but felt gratefully 
thankful that the wish of so many years’ standing, and which 
had seemed so little likely to be fulfilled, was absolutely 
accomplished, and she could prove how deeply she had loved 
and mourned her truly maternal friend. It is astonishing how 
often, if an earnest, heartfelt desire for the gratification of some 
good feeling or for the performance of some good deed be 
steadily and unvaryingly held before us, without any regard to 
its apparent impossibility, its accomplishment is at length 
obtained. It is supposed to be only done so in books, but this 
is a mistaken supposition, arising from the simple fact of indi¬ 
viduals so often forgetting their own past, and failing steadily 
to pursue one object, regardless of the lapse of years. If they 
looked into themselves more often and more carefully, if they 
sought consistency in desire and pursuit, they would often be 
startled at their connection, and that it is not so useless to wish 
and seek, when both are of such a nature as can be based on 
and strengthened by prayer, as it may seem. Human life 
presents as many startling connections and contingencies as 
romance — only as the actors not the observers of this world’s 
busy scene, we cannot trace them as we do in books. 

The thought of Eleanor was the only dark shade in Mrs. 
Hamilton’s life. She had written to her often, but communica¬ 
tion with India was not then what it is now, and her letters 
might not have reached their destination; especially as being 
in active service, Captain Fortescue was himself constantly 
changing his quarters. Whatever the cause (for Eleanor’s let¬ 
ters, Mrs. Hamilton thought, might also have miscarried,) she 
heard nothing of her till the hurried epistle commenced by her 
sister, and finished by Mr. Myrvin, brought the startling intelli¬ 
gence that she was a widow and dying, unable to reach Oak- 
wood, where she had hoped at least to have sufficient strength 
to bring her children, and implore for them protection and love, 
and conjuring Mrs. Hamilton to come to her without delay. 
The letter, imperfectly directed, had been days on its journey, 


44 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


and it was with the most melancholy forebodings Mr. and Mrs, 
Hamilton had started for Llangwillan. 

Btit though it was not till many years after Edward and 
Ellen Fortescue became inmates of her family that Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton became acquainted with all the particulars of their child¬ 
hood, it is necessary that our readers should be rather more 
enlightened; otherwise the character of Ellen may be to them 
as unnatural and as incomprehensible as it was to her aunt. 

That Eleanor could realize true happiness in a marriage en 
tered into only because she could not bear the torture of her 
own thoughts, and her constant dread of the world’s contumely, 
was not likely. At first, indeed, it was a very delightful thing 
to find herself the object not only of devotion to her husband 
(whom, could she entirely have forgotten Fitzclair, she might 
have really loved,) but a still more brilliant star in India than 
she had even been in England. Though Captain Fortescue 
was often engaged in marches and countermarches, where 
Eleanor sometimes, though very rarely, accompanied him, still 
there were intervals of rest for him in the larger cities, where 
his wife ever shone preeminent. For the first three or four 
years, the pride he felt in seeing her so universally admired, in 
the greater attention he received for her sake, compensated for,, 
or concealed the qualities, which, as a soldier’s wife, he had 
fondly believed she would possess. But as his health, always 
delicate, became more and more undermined, and compelled 
him to relinquish society, at least in a great measure, and to 
look for the quiet pleasures of domestic life, he found, and bit¬ 
ter was that first awakening, that his wishes, his comfort, were 
of no importance. She could not resign the pleasures of socie¬ 
ty— of still being enabled to pursue the dangerous amusement 
of her girlhood (though so guardedly that not a rumor against 
her ever found breath,) for the dulness of her home. Yet 
still he loved her ; and when Eleanor, with all the fascinating 
playfulness of her former self, would caress and try to persuade 
him to go out with her, and not sit moping at home, and that 
if he would, she would behave just as he liked, and if he did not 
care to see her surrounded, as she knew she was, by red coats, 
she would dismiss them all, and devote herself to him—but 
indeed she could not stay at home — he would feel that it would 
be cruel indeed to chain such a being to his side, and sometimes 
make the exertion (for which he was little fitted) to accompany 
her ; at others, with kind words and indulgent love, permit her 
to follow her own wishes, and remain alone. But little did he 
think the real reason that Eleanor could not rest in quiet at 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


45 


home. The recollection of Lord Fitzclair was at such times so 
fearfully vivid, that the very agony she had endured when first 
told of his fearful end would return in all its intensity; the 
thought: Had her father really cursed her for her disobedi¬ 
ence, and was it that forever hovering round her, preventing 
any thing like lasting happiness ! And yet, by a strange con¬ 
tradiction, while the idea of her father’s curse shook her whole 
frame at times with convulsive sobs, pride, that most fatal in¬ 
gredient of her character, utterly prevented all attempt on her 
part to communicate with her relations. She said, as they had 
made no effort to conciliate, she would not; and yet the long¬ 
ing for Emmeline sometimes became actually painful. 

Eleanor was never intended for the heartless, reckless being 
she had tried to become. It was a constant and most terrible 
struggle between the good and evil parts of her nature, and 
though the evil triumphed — in the determination that nothing. 
should change her course of action, nothing compel her to 
acknowledge she had ever been in the wrong, and was really 
not the perfect creature which flattery was ever ready to pour 
into her ear — the good had yet so much power as to make her 
miserable, by the conviction, that she was not what she might 
have been — that she never could be happy — that every plea¬ 
sure was hollow, every amusement vain. Again and again the 
memories of Emmeline’s gentle, sustaining, ever-active piety 
would come before her, as if beseeching her to seek the only 
fount of peace; but so terrible was the self-reproach, the an¬ 
guish which the thought called up, that she always turned from 
it with a shudder, resolved that religion was never meant for 
such as herself, and that its restrictions should never enter her 
mind, or its dictates pass her lips. 

With the awakening intelligence of her son, however, there 
seemed one pleasure not wholly hollow — one enjoyment with¬ 
out the shadow of alloy; and she grasped it with an avidity 
and a constancy, that in a character generally so wavering and 
inconsistent was almost incredible. That her son was from his 
earliest infancy the image of herself, might have added strength 
to the feeling; but the intense love, almost idolatry, she felt 
toward him, increasing with his growth, did much toward 
banishing the unpleasant feelings of remorse and home-sickness. 
She devoted herself to her boy, not judiciously indeed, for she 
was not one to practise self-denial in education; and as Ed¬ 
ward’s disposition was not one to cause her annoyance, even 
from over-indulgence, there was not even the check of his ill- 
temper or rudeness toward herself, to whisper the fearful evil 
she was engendering. 


46 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


What was the emotion which had so riveted her to her son, 
it might have been difficult to ascertain; it could scarcely have 
been the mere instinct of maternity, for then it would have ex¬ 
tended to her daughter; but as complete as was her indulgence 
to Edward, so was her neglect of Ellen. 

Colonel Fortescue (for he had gradually attained that rank) 
had borne, without complaint, neglect of himself; nay, it had 
not had power in the least degree to diminish his love, though it 
might have awakened him to the consciousness that his wife was 
indeed not perfect. Her devotion to Edward, even undertaking 
the toilsome task of instruction, had delighted him; for, at first, 
having been much from home, he was not conscious of the lonely 
fate of his little girl; but when the truth became evident, that 
she was an object almost of dislike — that she was left entirely 
to the tender mercies of a hireling, and Eleanor only alluded to 
her, to contrast her peevishness and stupidity with Edward’s 
happiness and intellect, all the father was roused within him, 
and, for the first time, he felt and expressed serious displeasure, 
lie acknowledged that his son might, indeed, be superior in 
beauty and talent, but he would not allow that Ellen’s affections 
were less w r arm, or her temper less capable of guidance. To 
him, and to all who had in the least attended to childhood, El¬ 
len’s face, even from infancy, expressed not ill-temper, but suf¬ 
fering. Continually ill, for she inherited her father’s constitu¬ 
tion, the poor little infant was constantly crying or fretful; 
which Eleanor, never having known what illness was, attributed 
at once to a naturally evil temper which annoyed her. The 
nurse, as ignorant as she "was obsequious, adopted the same 
opinion; and, before she was even three years old, harshness, 
both by nurse and mother, had been constantly used, to make 
Ellen as good a child as her brother. 

In vain did the Colonel, when he became aware of this treat¬ 
ment, remonstrate that it was the illness of the poor child — 
neither obstinacy nor ill-temper: his wife would not understand 
him, and at length he sternly and peremptorily declared, that 
as she had her will with Edward, he would have his with Ellen, 
and that no chastisement should be inflicted*. If she did wrong, 
he was to be told of it, and if necessary he would reprove her, 
but he would allow no other interference. Mrs. Fortescue 
made not the least objection, believing that as her husband had 
thus taken her in charge, she was exonerated from all blame if 
she left her entirely to him. 

Only too quickly did the poor child discover that the lovely 
being whom she called mother, and whom she loved so fondly, 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


47 


had no love, no caress for her. Repeated punishment, though 
it had only extended to her fifth year, had completely crushed 
the gentle, tender spirit, that had required such judicious nurs¬ 
ing; and combined with physical suffering, instead of deaden¬ 
ing the feelings, as in some dispositions it would have done, had 
rendered them morbidly acute — an effect which constant lone¬ 
liness naturally deepened. Her father’s love and caresses had 
caused her to cling to him so passionately, that every word he 
said, every request he made her, was treasured and thought 
upon, when he was away from her, with a tenacity many would 
have fancied unnatural in a child. He taught her, though his 
heart often bled as he did so (for what claim had her mother 
upon the feelings he sought to inculcate,) to love, honor, and 
obey her mother in all things — that if she did so, she would be 
as happy as Edward in time; and Ellen, though she did not un¬ 
derstand him, obeyed. But Colonel Fortescue little imagined 
the evil which was accruing from these very natural lessons. 

Ellen learned to believe that, as her mother never noticed 
her, except in accents of anger or irritation, it must be her own 
fault. She longed to be beautiful and buoyant as Edward; and 
that she was neither, marked her in her own young mind as so 
inferior, it Avas no wonder her mother could not caress or love 
her. Had Edward presumed on his favoritism, and been un¬ 
kind or neglectful, she might, perhaps, have envied more than 
she loved him; but his disposition was naturally so noble, so 
open-hearted, so generous, that he always treated her with af¬ 
fection, and would share with her his playthings and sweets, 
even while he could not but believe her in all things his in¬ 
ferior ; and that as such, of course, her wishes could never cross 
with his. Poor child, she scarcely knew what it was to wish, 
except that she might cling to her mother as she did to her 
father, and that she could but be good and beautiful enough to 
win her love! The lesson of concealment of every feeling is 
but too easily and too early learned. Tears do not flow even 
from childhood, when always rudely checked, and angrily re¬ 
proved. Affection cannot display itself unless called forth; 
and so the very outward seeming of children is more in a pa¬ 
rent’s hand than mere superficial observers may believe: and 
Mrs. Fortescue blamed and disliked the cold inanimate exterior 
which she had never tried to warm. 

Ellen’s extreme difficulty in acquiring knowledge, compared 
with Edward’s extraordinary quickness, only confirmed her 
painful conviction of her great inferiority, the impossibility of 
her ever winning love — and the consequent increased intensity 


48 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


of her affection for her father and brother, who loved her not¬ 
withstanding. That the child herself could not have defined 
these sensations is true; but that they had existence, even be¬ 
fore she was nine years old, and that they influenced many 
years of her after-life, causing error and suffering, and render¬ 
ing Mrs. Hamilton’s task one of pain and difficulty, before these 
mistaken influences could be eradicated, is equally so. The 
power over early years is so immense, its responsibility so ex¬ 
tensive, its neglect or abuse may indeed make the earnest 
thinker tremble ; less, perhaps, for the actual amount of general 
evil, for that circumstances in after life are sometimes graciously 
permitted to avert, but for individual suffering and individual 
joy — and especially is this the case in the training of girls. 
More enduring in their very fragility than boys, they may be 
compared to those precious metals which fire and water and 
pressure have no power to break, but simply to draw out to a 
thinner and thinner thread, dwindling more and more, but to 
its last spider-woven fineness capable of tenuity and vitality. 
While boys, like men, are often crushed at once — the frame 
of the one and the spirit of the other equally urfable to endure. 


CHAPTER VI. 

DOMESTIC DISCORD AND ITS END. 

The displeasure of her husband, his reproaches for her con¬ 
duct to Ellen, by causing some degree of annoyance, increased 
Mrs. Fortescue’s feelings of dislike toward the object who had 
caused it, and this was soon afterward heightened by self- 
reproach. 

A malignant fever broke out in the British settlement where 
Colonel Fortescue was stationed; his wife and children were 
with him, and, dreadfully alarmed, Eleanor determined to re¬ 
move with her children to some less unhealthy spot. The 
Colonel willingly consented; but before their hasty prepara¬ 
tions were concluded Ellen sickened. Alarm for Edward, 
however, so engrossed the mother, that she appeared incapable 
of any other thought. In vain Colonel Fortescue urged that 
his son would be safe with the friends who had promised to 
take charge of him, and who were on the point of leaving the 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


49 


city; that there were none on whom he could depend so to 
tend the little sufferer as not to require a guiding head, and she 
knew how impossible it was for him to be with his child as his 
heart prompted. He urged, entreated, commanded in vain, 
Mrs. Fortescue was inexorable. She declared that the idea 
of her son being away from her at such a time would drive her 
mad; and as for duty, one child demanded her care as much as 
another ; that her husband might not care about thus exposing 
her to infection, but she really thought, for Edward’s sake, it 
was her duty to take care of herself. It might be nothing to 
the Colonel or Ellen whether she lived or died, but to Edward 
it was a great deal; and so as she must choose between them, 
she would go with him who loved her best, and who would be 
miserable without her. The haughty, angry tone with which 
she spoke, the unjust taunt, roused every indignant feeling, and 
Colonel Fortescue said more in that moment of irritation than 
he could have believed possible. But it only awakened the 
cold, sustaining pride which Eleanor always called to her aid 
when conscience smote her, and she departed with her son, 
hardening every better feeling, and rousing anger against her 
husband and child to conquer the suffering of self-reproach. 
But when many miles from the city of death, and there were 
no fears for Edward, anxiety and wretchedness so assailed her, 
that pride itself gave way. To communicate with the infected 
city was difficult, and very infrequent, and again and again did 
she wish that she had remained. 

During the continuance of Ellen’s illness her father’s anguish 
was indeed terrible. Every leisure moment he spent by her 
side, moistening her parched lips, bathing her burning forehead, 
and listening to the plaintive accents of delirium with an acute¬ 
ness of suffering, that injured his own health more than he had 
the least idea of. The attendants were really both kind and 
skilful, but the Colonel fancied, when he was not with her, she 
was neglected, and in still greater suffering; and the struggle 
between his duties and his child was almost more than he could 
bear. He had never been a religious man — never known what 
it was to pray, except in the public services of his regiment: 
but now prayer, earnest, heartfelt, poured from him; and the 
thankfulness to God, which so overpowered him when she was 
pronounced out of danger, as to compel him to weep like a 
child, planted a sense of a Father’s infinite love and infinite 
compassion within him, which was his sole sustainer the short 
remainder of his life. 

Eleanor’s letters, few as they were, had in some degree soft- 


50 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


ened his anger toward her; but as he beheld the ravages of 
disease on his poor child’s face and form, rendering her still less 
attractive than she had been, and perceived that bodily weak¬ 
ness had extended to her mind, and often and often forced tears 
from her eyes and momentary complainings, he trembled lest 
Eleanor should find still more to dislike and reprove; and often 
his heart bled as Ellen would ask with tears, for her dear 
mamma, adding, plaintively, “ Mamma never kisses me or loves 
me as she does Edward; but I like to be near her, and look at 
her dear beautiful face, and wish I was good and pretty enough 
for her to love me. Why does she never come to me ? — and 
why may I not go to her?” 

And what could the Colonel reply, except that her mother 
feared Edward would take the infection, and therefore she was 
obliged to go with him to some place of safety? And his child 
was satisfied, repeating so fondly her delight that her dear, dear 
Edward had been saved from being as ill as she was, that her 
father elapsed her closer and closer to his heart, feeling the in¬ 
trinsic beauty of a disposition that, instead of repining that she 
Avas left alone to suffer, could rejoice that her brother had been 
spared. 

Colonel Fortescue obtained a few Aveeks’ leaA^e, that he might 
take his child to the seaside as recommended, ere she joined 
her mother. And alone Avith him, gradually regaining a mode¬ 
rate degree of strength, Ellen was A r ery happy; but such bright 
intervals Avere indeed few and far between. There was no 
change in her mother’s conduct toward her, when reunited. 
Her heart had indeed risen to her lips as she again beheld the 
child so nearly lost; and had she followed impulse, she Avould 
have clasped her in her arms and wept over her, but that Avould 
have seemed tacitly to acknoAvledge that she had been Avrong, 
and had suffered from it; and so she refrained, causing suffer¬ 
ing to herself, anguish to her child, and pain to her husband, 
all from that fell demon, pride. She only chose to remember 
that it was Ellen Avho had been the cause of her husband’s 
anger— Ellen, the constant subject of contention between them 
— Ellen, always causing the pang of self-reproach: and so how 
Avas it possible that she could love her? 

About a year after Ellen’s dangerous illness, when she was 
nearly ten, and Edward just eleven, Colonel Fortescue Avas or¬ 
dered to take command of some troops to be stationed at a fort, 
whose vicinity to some hostile natives rendered it rather a post 
of danger. The Avives and children of the officers were per¬ 
mitted to accompany them, if they Avished it, and, except in the 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


51 


Colonel’s own family, th&re had been no hesitation in their 
choice. The Colonel was strangely and painfully depressed as 
with some vague dread, and all his affection for his wife had 
returned with such force as to make him shrink in unusual suf¬ 
fering from the idea of leaving her; and conquering reluctance, 
for he felt as if she would not accede, he implored her to ac¬ 
company him, confessing he felt ill and unhappy, and shrank 
from a separation. His wife looked at him with astonishment; 
he had never asked nor thought of such a thing before, she said, 
in their many brief partings, and she really could not under¬ 
stand him. The place was decidedly unhealthy, and Edward 
must not be exposed to its malaria; besides which, she had 
promised him to go to a juvenile ball, which was given by an 
English family of rank, in a fortnight’s time, and she could not 
possible disappoint him; and why her husband should wish for 
her in such a place she could not imagine, but she knew she 
should die of terror before she had been there a week. Not a 
word did the Colonel utter in reply, but he felt as if an ice-bolt 
had struck his heart and frozen it at once. lie fixed his eyes 
upon her, with a strange, sad, reproaching look, which haunted 
her till her death, and turning from her, sought the room where 
Ellen was preparing her lessons for the joyful hour when he 
could attend to her. As she sprung toward him with a cry of 
glee, he clasped her to his bosom, without the power of uttering 
a sound, save a groan so deep and hollow, that the child’s un¬ 
usual glee was checked, and she clung to him in terror; and 
when he could tell her that he was about to leave her, and for 
an indefinite time, her passionate grief seemed almost to com¬ 
fort him, by its strong evidence of her childish love. 

“ Let me go with you, papa, dear papa! oh! I will be so 
good — I will not give you any trouble, indeed, indeed I will 
not. Pray, pray, take me with you, dear, dear papa! ” And 
she looked in his face so beseechingly, that the colonel had no 
strength to resist, and fondly kissing her, he promised that if 
Mrs. Cameron would permit her to join her little family, she 
should go with him; and, to Ellen’s intense thankfulness, the 
permission was willingly accorded. 

Mrs. Fortescue had indeed replied, when her husband briefly 
imparted his intention, that he certainly must intend Ellen to 
be ill again, by exposing her to such an unhealthy climate ; and 
that if she were, he must not be angry if she refused to go and 
nurse her, as it would be all his weak indulgence, and no fault 
of hers. The Colonel made no answer, and, irritated beyond 
measure at his manner, Eleanor parted from her husband in 
coldness and in pride. 


52 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


The fortnight passed, and Mrs. Fortescue felt as if her own 
youth were indeed renewed, the longings for universal admira¬ 
tion again her own; but now it was only for her son, and her 
triumph was complete; many and lovely were the youthful 
beings called together on that festive night, seeming as if Eng¬ 
land had concentrated her fairest and purest offspring in that 
far distant land ; but Edward, and his still lovely mother, out¬ 
shone them all. That she was herself admired as much, if not 
more, than she had ever been in her palmy days of triumph, 
Eleanor scarcely knew; her every feeling was centred in her 
boy, and consequently the supercilious haughtiness which had 
so often marred her beauty in former days was entirely laid 
aside, and maternal pride and pleasure gratified to the utmost, 
added a new charm to her every movement and every word. 
She heard the universal burst of admiration which greeted her, 
as to oblige Edward she went through a quadrille with him, 
and never in her whole career had she felt so triumphant, so 
proud, so joyous. During the past fortnight she had often been 
tormented by self-reproach, and her husband’s look had disa¬ 
greeably haunted her; but this night not a fleeting thought of 
either the Colonel or Ellen entered her mind, and her pleasure 
was complete. 

Tired with dancing, and rather oppressed with the heat, El¬ 
eanor quitted the crowded ball-room, and stood for a few mi¬ 
nutes quite alone in a solitary part of the veranda, which, cov¬ 
ered with lovely flowers, ran round the house. The music in 
the ball-room sounded in the distance as if borne by the night 
breeze in softened harmony over the distant hills. The moon 
was at the full, and lit up nearly the whole garden with the 
refulgence of a milder day. At that moment a cold chill crept 
over the heart and frame of Eleanor, causing her breath to 
come thick and gaspingly. Why, she knew not, for there was 
nothing visible to cause it, save that, in one part of the garden, 
a cluster of dark shrubs, only partly illuminated by the rays of 
the moon, seemed suddenly to have assumed the shape of a 
funeral bier, covered with a military pall. At the same mo¬ 
ment the music in the ball-room seemed changed to the low 
wailing plaint and muffled drums, the military homage to some 
mighty dead. And if it were indeed but excited fancy, it had 
a strange effect, for Eleanor fainted on the marble floor. 

That same afternoon Colonel Fortescue, with some picked 
men, had set off to discover the track of some marauding 
natives, who for some days had been observed hovering about 
the neighborhood. Military ardor carried him farther than he 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


53 


intended, and it was nearly night, when entering a narrow 
defile, a large body of the enemy burst upon them, and a des¬ 
perate contest ensued. The defile was so hemmed in with 
rock and mountain, that though not very distant from the fort, 
the noise of the engagement had not been distinguished. Cap¬ 
tain Cameron was quietly sitting with his wife and elder child¬ 
ren, awaiting without any forebodings the return of the Colonel. 
Though it was late, Ellen’s fears had been so visible, that Mrs. 
Cameron could not send her to bed ; the child seemed so rest¬ 
less and uneasy that the Captain had tried to laugh her out of 
her cowardice, as he called it, declaring that her father would 
disown her if she could not be more brave. Hasty footsteps 
were at length heard approaching, and Ellen started from her 
seat and sprung forward, as the door opened; but it was not 
the Colonel, only a sergeant, who had accompanied him, and 
whose face caused Captain Cameron to exclaim, in alarm, 
“ How now, Sergeant Allen, returned and alone; what has 
chanced ? ” 

“ The worst those brown devils could have done! ” was the 
energetic reply. “We’ve beaten them, and we will beat them 
again, the villains! but that will not bring him back — Cap¬ 
tain — Captain, the Colonel’s down! ” 

The Captain started from his chair, but before he could frame 
another word, Ellen had caught hold of the old man’s arm, 
and wildly exclaimed, “ Do you mean — do you mean, pray 
tell me, Sergeant Allen! — Have the natives met papa’s 
troop, and have they fought? — and — is he hurt — is he 
killed?” The man could not answer her — for her look and 
tone, he afterward declared to his comrades, went through his 
heart, just for all the world like a sabre-cut; and for the mo¬ 
ment neither Captain nor Mrs. Cameron could address her. 
The shock seemed to have banished voice from all save from 
the poor child principally concerned. 

“ Stay with me, my dear Ellen! ” Mrs. Cameron at length 
said, advancing to her, as she stood still clinging to the ser¬ 
geant’s arm: “ the Captain will go and meet your father, and 
if he be wounded, we will nurse him together, dearest! Stay 
with me.” 

“ No, no, no! ” was the agonized reply; “ let me go to him, 
he may die before they bring him here, and I shall never feel 
his kiss or hear him bless me again. He told me he should 
fall in battle — oh! Mrs. Cameron, pray let me go to him.” 

And they who knew all which that father was to his poor 
Ellen, could not resist that appeal. The sergeant said the 
5 * 


54 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


Colonel was not dead, but so mortally wounded they feared to 
move him. It was a fearful scene. Death in its most horrid 
form was all around her; her little feet were literally deluged 
in blood, and she frequently stumbled over the dusky forms 
and mangled and severed limbs that lay on the grass, but 
neither sob nor cry escaped her till she beheld her father. His 
men had removed him from the immediate scene of slaughter, 
and tried to form a rough pallet of military cloaks, but the 
ghastly countenance, which the moon’s light' rendered still 
more fixed and pallid, the rigidity of his limbs, all seemed to 
denote they had indeed arrived too late, and that terrible still¬ 
ness was broken by the convulsed and passionate sobs of the 
poor child, who, flinging herself beside him, besought him only 
to open his eyes, to look upon her once more, to call her his dar¬ 
ling, and kiss her once, only once again: and it seemed as if 
her voice had indeed power to recall the fluttering soul. The 
heavy eyes did unclose, the clenched hand relaxed to try and 
clasp his child, and he murmured feebly — 

“ How camfe you here, my poor darling Ellen ? are friends 
here? — is that Cameron’s voice?” The Captain knelt down 
by him and convulsively pressed his hand, but he could not 
speak. 

“ God bless you, Cameron! Take my poor child to her 
mother — implore her — to — and it is to-night, this very 
night — she and my boy are happy — and I — and my poor 
Ellen —” A fearful convulsion choked his voice, but after a 
little while he tried to speak again — 

“ My poor child, I have prepared you for this ; but I know 
you must grieve for me. Take my blessing to your brother, 
tell him to protect — love your mother, darling! she must love 
you at last — a ring — my left hand — take it to her — oh! 
how I have loved her — God have mercy on her — on my 
poor children! ” He tried to press his lips again on Ellen’s 
cheek and brow, but the effort was vain — and at the very 
moment Mrs. Fortescue had stood transfixed by some unknown 
terror, her husband ceased to breathe. 

It was long before Ellen rallied from that terrible scene. 
Even when the fever which followed subsided, and she had 
been taken, apparently perfectly restored to health, once more 
to her mother and brother, its recollection so haunted her, that 
her many lonely hours became fraught with intense suffering. 
Her imagination, already only too morbid, dwelt again and 
again u*pon the minutest particular of that field of horror; not 
only her father, but the objects which, when her whole heart 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


55 


was wrapped in him, she seemed not even to have seen. The 
ghastly heaps of dead, the severed limbs, the mangled trunks, 
the gleaming faces all fixed in the distorted expressions with 
which they died — the very hollow groans and louder cry of 
pain which, as she passed through the field, had fallen on her 
ear unheeded, returned to the poor child’s too early awakened 
fancy so vividly, that often and often it was only a powerful 
though almost unconscious effort that prevented the scream of 
fear. Her father’s last words were never forgotten; she would 
not only continue to love her mother because he had desired 
her to do so, but because he had so loved her , and on her first 
return home this seemed easier than ever to accomplish. Mrs. 
Fortescue, tortured by remorse and grief, had somewhat soft¬ 
ened toward the child who had received the last breath of her 
husband; and could Ellen have overcome the reserve and fear 
which so many years of estrangement had engendered, and 
given vent to the warmth of her nature, Mrs. Fortescue might 
have learned to know, and knowing, to love her — but it was 
then too late. 

So torturing were Mrs. Fortescue’s feelings when she recalled 
the last request of her husband, and her cruel and haughty 
refusal; when that which had seemed so important, a juvenile 
ball — because not to go would disappoint Edward — became 
associated with his fearful death, and sunk into worse than 
nothing — she had parted with him in anger, and it proved for¬ 
ever ; — that even as England had become odious to her, twelve 
years before, so did India now; and she suddenly resolved to 
quit it, and return to the relatives she had neglected so long, 
but toward whom she now yearned more than ever. She 
thought and believed such a complete change would and must 
bring peace. Alas! what change will remove the torture of 
remorse i 

Though incapable of real love, from her studied heartless¬ 
ness, it was impossible for her to have lived twelve years with 
one so indulgent and fond as Colonel Fortescue, without real¬ 
izing some degree of affection, and his unexpected and awful 
death roused every previously dormant feeling so powerfully, 
that she was astonished at herself, and in her misery believed 
that the feeling had only come to add to her burden — for what 
was the use of loving now ? and, determined to rouse herself, 
she made every preparation for immediate departure ; but she 
was painfully arrested. The selfish mother had fled from the 
couch of her suffering child, and now a variation of the same 
complaint laid her on a bed of pain. It was a desperate strug- 


5G 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


gle between life and death; but she rallied, and insisted on 
taking her passage for England some weeks before her medical 
attendant thought it advisable. The constant struggle between 
the whisperings of good and the dominion of evil, which her 
whole life had been, had unconsciously undermined a constitu¬ 
tion naturally good; and when to this was added a malignant 
disease, though brief in itself, the seeds of a mortal complaint 
were planted, which, ere the long voyage was concluded, had 
obtained fatal and irremediable ascendency, and occasioned 
those sufferings and death which in our first chapters we de¬ 
scribed. 

To Edward, though the death of his father had caused him 
much childish grief, still more perhaps from sympathy with the 
deep suffering of his mother, than a perfect consciousness of his 
own heavy loss, the manner in which he died was to him a 
source of actual pride. He had always loved the histories of 
heroes, military and naval, and gloried in the idea that his 
father had been one of them, and died as they did, bravely 
fighting against superior numbers, and in the moment of a 
glorious victory. He had never seen death, and imagined not 
all the attendant horrors of such a one; and how that Ellen 
could never even hear the word without shuddering he could 
not understand, nor why she should always so painfully shrink 
from the remotest reference to that night, which was only asso¬ 
ciated in his mind with emotions of pleasure. In the tedious 
voyage of nearly six months (for five-and-twenty years ago 
the voyage from India to England was not what it is now,) the 
character of Edward shone forth in such noble coloring as 
almost to excuse his mother’s idolatry, and win for him the 
regard of passengers and crew. Captain Cameron had im¬ 
pressed on his mind that he now stood in his father’s place to 
his mother and sister; and as the idea of protecting is always 
a strong incentive to manliness in a boy, however youthful, 
Edward well redeemed the charge, so devoting himself not 
only to his mother, but to Ellen, that her affection for him 
redoubled, as did her mistaken idea of his vast superiority. 

Ilis taste had always pointed to the naval in preference to 
the military profession, and the voyage confirmed it. Before 
he had been a month on board he had become practically an 
expert sailor — had learned all the technical names of the 
various parts of a ship, and evinced the most eager desire for 
the acquirement of navigation. Nor did he fail in the true 
sailor spirit, when, almost within sight of England, a tremendous 
storm arose, reducing the vessel almost to a wreck, carrying her 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


57 


far from her destined moorings, and compelling her, after ten 
days’ doubt whether or not she would reach land in safety, to 
anchor in Milford Haven, there to repair her injuries, ere she 
could be again seaworthy. 

The passengers here left her, and Mrs. Fortescue, whose 
illness the terrors of the storm had most alarmingly increased, 
was conveyed to Pembroke in an almost exhausted state ; but 
once on land she rallied, resolved on instantly proceeding to 
Swansea, then cross to Devonshire, and travel direct to Oak- 
wood, where she had no doubt her sister was. But her temper 
was destined to be tried still more. The servant who had ac¬ 
companied her from India, an Englishwoman, tired out with 
the fretful impatience of Mrs. Fortescue during the voyage, and 
disappointed that she did not at once proceed to London, de¬ 
manded her instant discharge, as she could not stay any longer 
from her friends. The visible illness of her mistress might 
have spared this unfeeling act, but Eleanor had never shown 
feeling or kindness to her inferiors, and therefore, perhaps, had 
no right to expect them. Her suppressed anger and annoy¬ 
ance so increased physical suffering, that had it not been for 
her children she must have sunk at once; but for their sakes 
she struggled with that deadly exhaustion, and set off the very 
next morning, without any attendant, for Swansea. They were 
not above thirty miles from this town when, despite her every 
effort, Mrs. Fortescue became too ill to proceed. There was 
no appearance of a town or village, but the owners of a half¬ 
way house, pitying the desolate condition of the travellers, 
directed the postboy to the village of Llangwillan; which, 
though out of the direct road, and four or five miles distant, 
was yet the nearest place of shelter. And never in her whole 
life had Mrs. Fortescue experienced such a blessed sensation 
of physical relief, hs when the benevolent exertions of Mr. Myr- 
vin had installed her in widow Morgan’s humble dwelling, and 
by means of soothing medicine and deep repose in some degree 
relieved the torture of a burning brain and aching frame. Still 
she hoped to rally, and obtain strength sufficient to proceed; 
and bitter was the anguish when the hope was compelled to be 
relinquished. — With all that followed, our readers are already 
acquainted, and we will, therefore, at once seek the acquaint¬ 
ance of Mrs. Hamilton’s own family, whose u Traits of Cha¬ 
racter” will, we hope, illustrate other and happier home 
influences than those of indiscreet indulgence and culpable 
neglect. 


PART II. 


TRAITS OF CHARACTER. 


CHAPTER I. 

YOUTHFUL COLLOQUY-INTRODUCING CHARACTER. 

The curtains were drawn close, the large lamp was on the 
table, and a cheerful fire blazing in the grate; for though only 
September, the room was sufficiently large, and the evenings 
sufficiently chill, for a fire to add greatly to its aspect of true 
English comfort. There were many admirable pictures sus¬ 
pended on the walls, and well-filled book-cases, desks, and 
maps, stands of beautiful flowers, and some ingenious toys, all 
seeming to proclaim the apartment as the especial possession of 
the young party who were this evening busily engaged at the 
large round table which occupied the centre of the room. 
They were only four in number; but what with a large desk 
piled with books and some most alarming-sized dictionaries, 
which occupied the elder of the two lads, the embroidery frame 
of the elder girl, the dissected map before her sister, and two 
or three books scattered round the younger boy, the table 
seemed so well filled that Miss Harcourt had quietly ensconced 
herself in her own private little corner, sufficiently near to take 
an interest, and sometimes join in the conversation of her youth¬ 
ful charge; but so apart as to be no restraint upon them, and to 
enable her to pursue her own occupations of either reading, 
writing, or working uninterruptedly. Could poor Mrs. Fortes- 
cue have glanced on the happy group, she certainly might have 
told her sister, with some show of justice, that there was such 
an equal distribution of interesting and animated expression 
(which is the great beauty of youth,) that she could not have 


r 




HOME INFLUENCE. 


59 


known the trial of having such a heavy, dull, unhappy child as 
Ellen. Mrs. Hamilton, indeed, we rather think, would not have 
considered such a trial, except as it proved ill-health and physi¬ 
cal pain in the little sufferer; and, perhaps her increased care 
and tenderness (for such with her would have been the conse¬ 
quence of the same cause which had created her sister’s neglect) 
might have removed both the depression of constant but im¬ 
palpable illness, and the expression of heaviness and gloom. 
Certain it is, that her own Herbert had, with regard to delicate 
health, given her more real and constant anxiety than Eleanor 
had ever allowed herself to experience with Ellen; but there 
was nothing in the boy’s peculiarly interesting countenance to 
denote the physical suffering he very often endured. Care and 
love had so surrounded his path with blessings, that he was 
often heard to declare, that he never even wished to be as 
strong as his brother, or to share his active pleasures, he had so 
many others equally delightful. Whether it was his physical 
temperament, inducing a habitude of reflection and studious 
thought much beyond his years, or whether the unusually gifted 
mind worked on the frame, or the one combined to form the 
other, it would be as impossible to decide with regard to him 
as with hundreds of others like him; but he certainly seemed, 
not only to his parents, but to their whole household, and to 
every one who casually associated with him, to have more in 
him of heaven than earth; as if indeed he were only lent, not 
given. And often and often his mother’s heart ached with 
its very intensity of love, causing the unspoken dread — how 
might she hope to retain one so faultless, and yet so full of every 
human sympathy and love ! The delicate complexion, beauti¬ 
ful color of his cheeks and lips, and large soft, very dark blue 
eye, with its long black lash, high, arched brow, shaded by 
glossy chestnut hair, were all so lit up with the rays of mind, 
that though his face returned again and again to the fancy of 
those who had only once beheld it, they could scarcely have re¬ 
called a single feature, feeling only the almost angelic expres¬ 
sion of the whole. 

His brother, as full of mirth and mischief, and as noisy and 
laughter-loving as Herbert was quiet and thoughtful, made his 
way at once, winning regard by storm, and retaining it by his 
frank and generous qualities, which made him a favorite with 
young and old. Even in his hours of study, there was not the 
least evidence of reflection or soberness. As a child he had 
had much to contend with, in the way of passion, pride, and 
self-will; but his home influence had been such a judicious 


60 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


blending of indulgence and firmness on the part of both his 
parents, such a persevering inculcation of a strong sense of 
duty, religious and moral, that at fifteen his difficulties had 
been all nearly overcome; and, except when occasional acts of 
thoughtlessness and hasty impulse lured him into error and its 
painful consequences, he was as happy and as good a lad as 
even his anxious mother could desire. 

The elder of his two sisters resembled him in the bright, dark, 
flashing eye, the straight intellectual brow, the rich dark brown 
hair and well-formed mouth; but the expression was so differ¬ 
ent at present, that it was often difficult to trace the likeness 
that actually existed. Haughtiness, and but too often ill-tem¬ 
per, threw a shade over a countenance, which when happy and 
animated was not only attractive then, but gave a fair promise 
of great beauty in after years. The disposition of Caroline 
Hamilton was in fact naturally so similar to that of her aunt, 
Mrs. Fortescue, that Mrs. Hamilton’s task with her was not 
only more difficult and painful in the present than with any of 
the others, but her dread of the future at times so overpower¬ 
ing, that it required all her husband’s influence to calm her, by 
returning trust in Him, who had promised to answer all who 
called upon Him, and would bless that mother’s toils which were 
based on, and looked up alone, to His influence on her child, 
and guidance for herself. 

The blue-eyed, fair-haired, graceful, little Emmeline, not 
only the youngest of the family, but from her slight figure, deli¬ 
cate, small features, and childish manner, appearing even much 
younger than she was, was indeed a source of joy and love to 
all, seeming as if sorrow, except for others, could not approach 
her. She had indeed much that required a carefully guiding 
hand, in a yielding weakness of disposition, indolent habit in 
learning, an unrestrained fancy, and its general accompaniment, 
over-sensitiveness of feeling, but so easily guided by affection, 
and with a disposition so sweet and gentle, that a word from 
her mother was always enough. Mrs. Hamilton had little fears 
for her, except, indeed, as for the vast capability of individual 
suffering which such a disposition engendered, in those trials 
which it was scarcely possible she might hope to pass through 
life without. There was only one safeguard, one unfailing com¬ 
fort, for a character like hers, and that was a deep ever-present 
sense of religion, which untiringly, and yet more by example 
than by precept, her parents endeavored to instil. Greatly, 
indeed, would both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton have been astonish¬ 
ed, had they been told that the little girl, Ellen Fortescue, who 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


61 


to both was such an enigma, and who was seemingly in all 
things so utterly unlike their Emmeline, was in natural disposi¬ 
tion exactly the same; and that the vast difference in present 
and future character simply arose from the fact, that the early 
influences of the one were sorrow and neglect, and of the other, 
happiness and love. 

“ I wonder whether mamma and papa will really come home 
to-night; ” observed Caroline, after several minutes of unbroken 
silence, all seemingly so engrossed in their own occupations as 
to have no inclination to speak. “And if they do, I wish we 
could know the exact time, I do so hate expecting and being 
disappointed.” 

“ Then neither wonder nor expect, my sage sister,” replied 
Percy, without, however, raising his head or interrupting his 
writing; “ and I will give you two capital reasons for my ad¬ 
vice. Firstly, wonder is the offspring of ignorance, and has two 
opposite effects on my sex and on yours. With us it is closely 
connected with philosophy, for we are told in ‘wonder all phi¬ 
losophy begins, in wonder it ends, and adoration fills up the 
inter space;” but with you, poor weak creatures, the only effect 
it produces is increased curiosity, of which you have naturally a 
more than adequate supply. Secondly, if you begin to wonder 
and except, and speculate as to the ayes and noes of a contin¬ 
gency to-night, you will not cease talking till mamma really 
does appear; and then good-by to my theme, for to write 
while your tongue is running, is impossible. So pray, take my 
advice, on consideration that you have had as good a sermon 
from me as my reverend brother Herbert can ever hope to 
give.” 

“ I do not think mamma and papa will be quite satisfied if 
he do not give us a much better one, even the very first time 
he attempts it; ” rejoined Emmeline, with a very arch look at 
her brother. 

“ What, you against me, Miss Emmy! and beginning to talk 
too. You forget what an important personage I am, during 
papa’s absence especially; and that as such, I am not to be in¬ 
sulted with impunity. So here goes — as a fresh exercise for 
your patience!” And he mingled all the fixed and unfixed 
parts of her map in most bewildering confusion, regardless of 
her laughing entreaty to let them alone. 

“You have tried a very bad way to keep me quiet, Percy,” 
continued Caroline; “you must either explain why wonder 
may not equally have the same good effect on us as on you, or 
retract your words entirely. You know you would not have 
6 


62 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


expressed such a contemptuous opinion, if mamma had been 
present.” 

“ My mother is such a very superior person, that when she 
is present her superiority extends over her whole sex, Caro¬ 
line ; even you are safe, because, as her child, it is to be hoped 
that one of these days you may be something like her; exactly, 
I do not expect — two such women as my mother can not 
exist.” 

“As if your opinion were of such importance, Percy,” re¬ 
plied Caroline haughtily ; “ it really is very little consequence 
to me whether you think me like mamma or not.” 

“ It is to me, though,” rejoined Emmeline, earnestly; “ I 
would rather be like mamma than like anybody else, and I 
should like Percy to think I was, because then he would love 
me still more.” 

“ Bravo, my little Em; spoken almost as well as I could 
myself; and, as a reward, as soon as this most annoying piece 
of erudition is accomplished, I will help you with your map. 
Why, you silly little thing, you have put Kamschatka as the 
terra firma of South America; no doubt that ice and snow 
would be very welcome there, but how the Americans would 
stare to see the fur-clad Kamschatkans such near neighbors. 
That’s it, go on, puzzle away till I can help you. And you 
Miss Caroline, retain your contempt of my opinion, and may 
you never repent it.” 

“ I thought you told me not to talk, Percy,” replied his sis¬ 
ter ; “ and I should like to know who is talking the most, you 
or I ? You will not finish what you are doing before the bell 
rings for prayers, if you go on in this way.” 

“ That proves how little you know the extent of my powers. 
I have only to make a clean copy of these learned reflections. 
Why, in the name of all the gods, were there such provokingly 
clever people as Seneca, Cicero, Pliny, and a host of others! 
or, if they must be wise, why did they not burn all the written 
wisdom, instead of leaving it as a means of torture in the hands 
of learned pedagogues, yclept schoolmasters, and as a curse on 
those poor unfortunates whose noddles are not wise enough to 
contain it.” 

“ I should be very sorry if all the ancient authors were thus 
annihilated,” observed Herbert, looking up from his book with 
a bright smile. “ I should lose a great deal of enjoyment even 
now, and still more by-and-by, when I know more.” 

“ Ay, but my dear fellow, your head is not quite so like a 
sieve as mine. Yours receives, contains, digests, and sends 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


G3 


forth the matter improved by your own ideas; but as for mine, 
the matter undoubtedly enters, but runs out again, and only 
leaves behind that which is too large and gross to pass through. 
No, no, Bertie, your head and mine are not related even in the 
twentieth degree of consanguinity, however nearly connected 
their masters may be. Hush ! not a word ; I have only one 
line more; what a wise man that was to be sure, who said, 
6 Otiosum esse quam nihil agere ’ — better to be idle than doing 
nothing. Don’t shake your head and laugh, Emmy. Yale ! 
never did I say good-by so willingly. Hurrah ! mamma and 
papa may come home when they like now. Cast your eye 
over it Herbert; just tell me if it looks correct, and then vale 
books — vale pens — vale desk for to-night! ” He placed his 
writing on his brother’s open book, threw his dictionary and 
grammar high in air, and dexterously caught them as they fell, 
piled up his books, closed his desk, and then, with a comical 
sigh of relief, flung himself full length on a sofa. 

“ Now that you have finished your task, Percy, perhaps you 
will have the kindness to inform us why at this time of the 
evening you have been writing Latin ? ” inquired Caroline. 

“ And open my wound afresh ! However, it is quite right 
that Miss Harcourt should know that, if I am ill from over- 
study to-morrow, it is her doing.” 

“ Mine ! ” answered Miss Harcourt, laughing; “ pray ex¬ 
plain yourself, young man, for I am so perfectly innocent as 
not even to understand you.” 

“ Did you not this morning give me a message to Lady 
Helen Grahame ? ” 

“ I did ; you passed her house on your way to Mr. How¬ 
ard’s.” 

“ Well, then, if you had not given me the message, much as 
I felt disinclined to pore over musty books and foolscap paper, 
from the extreme loveliness of the morning, I should have nerv¬ 
ed myself to go straight on to the Rectory. Lady Helen was 
not visible, so I tarried, believing your message of vital import¬ 
ance, and Annie came to me — by-the-by, what a little woman 
that child is ; Emmeline, you are a baby to her. I wonder she 
condescends to associate with you.” 

“ I do not think she is at all fond of me — Caroline is her 
friend,” replied Emmeline ; “ but what can Annie have “to do 
with your Latin ? ” 

“A great deal — for she talked and we walked, and time 
walked too, and by the time I had seen Lady Helen, it was 
two hours later than I ought to have been with Mr. Howard. 


64 


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On I went, feeling not particularly comfortable; but though it 
is clear logic that if Miss Harcourt had not sent me to Lady 
Helen’s I should not have been led into temptation; I was 
magnanimous enough not to mention her, but to lay the whole 
blame of my non-appearance, on my own disinclination for any 
study but that of nature. Mr. Howard looked grave and sor¬ 
rowful — I wish to heaven lie was more like any other school¬ 
master ; that look and tone of his are worse than any rod! — 
and to redeem my lost time in the morning, I was desired to 
write a Latin theme on a letter of Pliny’s this evening. And 
now that I have satisfied all your inquiries, please satisfy mine. 
Is there any chance of mamma’s coming home to-night ? ” 

“ Every probability,” replied Miss Harcourt. “ It only 
depends on your cousin, who is so very delicate, that if she 
were too fatigued, Mr. Hamilton would remain at Exeter 
to-night, and proceed here early to-morrow.” 

“ Well, my little cousin, though I have not the pleasure of 
knowing you, I hope you will be so kind as to let mamma come 
on to-night, for we have been too long without her, and I long 
to resign to papa his robes of office, for they sit mightily like 
borrowed plumes upon me. Mamma writes of Ellen and 
Edward — I wonder what they are like ! Come, Tiny, paint 
them for me — your fertile fancy generally fills up the shadow 
of a name.” 

“ I cannot, Percy, for I am afraid my pictures would not be 
agreeable.” 

“ Not agreeable ! ” repeated Percy and Miss Harcourt to¬ 
gether. “ Why not ? ” 

Emmeline hesitated, then answered ingenuously, “ We are 
so very, very happy together, that I do not feel quite sure that 
I am glad my cousins are going to live with us.” 

“ What! are you afraid I shall love Ellen more than you, 
Emmy ? ” exclaimed her brother, starting up and sitting on her 
chair; “ do not be alarmed, Tiny; no cousin shall take your 
place.” 

“ Indeed I am not afraid of that, Percy, dear,” she replied, 
looking so fondly in his face, that he gave her a hearty kiss. 
“I cannot tell why I should feel half sorry that they are 
coming, but I am quite sure I will do all I can to make them 
hapftr.” 

“ You cbuld not do otherwise if you were to try, Tiny. 
Come, Caroline, what say you ? We have all been thinking 
about them, so we may as well give each other the benefit of 
our thoughts.” 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


65 


u Suppose I do not feel inclined to do so ? ” 

“ Why we must all believe you are ashamed of them,” re¬ 
plied Percy, quickly, “ and if you are, I know who has made 
you so. I would lay any wager, the whole time you have been 
with Lady Helen Graliame, since mamma has been away, she 
lias been talking of nothing else — look, look, she is blushing — 
I am right.” 

“And if she did,” replied Caroline, very much provoked, 
“ she said nothing that I am ashamed of repeating. She knew 
my aunt before she went to India, and I am sure if her children 
are like her, they will be no agreeable additions to our family.” 

“ Bravo, Caroline ! you really are an apt pupil; Lady Helen’s 
words and manner completely ! but you may have one comfort; 
children are not always like their parents, and if they are as 
unlike Lady Helen’s description of my poor aunt (which by 
the way she had no right to give, nor you to listen to) as you 
are at this moment unlike mamma, we shall get on capitally, 
and need have no fears about them.” 

“ Percy you are intolerably disagreeable ! ” 

“ Because I speak the sad, sober truth ? Caroline, do pray, 
get rid of that dawning ill temper, before mamma comes ; it 
will not be a pleasant welcome home.” 

“ I am not ill-tempered, Percy: I suppose I may have my 
own opinion of Ellen and Edward, as well as all of you,” re¬ 
plied his sister angrily. 

“ But do not let it be an unkind one, without knowing them, 
dear Caroline,” observed Herbert gently ; “ it is so very diffi¬ 
cult to get rid of a prejudice when once it has entered our 
minds, even when we know and feel that it is a wrong one. I 
am sure if we only thought how sad it is that they have neither 
father nor mother to love them, and are coming all among 
strangers — born in a strange land too — we should find quite 
enough to think kindly about, and leave all wonder as to what 
they will be like, till we know them. I dare say we shall often 
have to bear and forbear, but that we have to do \Hth each 
other, and it will only be one brother and sister more.” 

“ Brother and sister! I am sure I shall not think of them so, 
Herbert, however you may. My father might have been a 
nobleman, and who knows any thing of theirs ? ” 

“ Caroline, how can you be so ridiculous ! ” exclaimed Percy, 
with a‘ most provoking fit of laughter. “ Their father served 
and died for his king — as our grandfather did; and had he 
lived might have been offered a title too — and their mother —• 
really I think you are very insulting to mamma: her sister’s 
6 * 


66 


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children I should imagine quite as high in rank as our¬ 
selves ! ” 

“And even if they were not — what would it signify ? ” re¬ 
joined Herbert. “ Dear Caroline, pray do not talk or think so; 
it makes me feel so sorry, for I know how wrong it is — we 
might have been in their place.” 

“I really cannot fancy any thing so utterly impossible,” 
interrupted Caroline, “ so you may spare the supposition, Her¬ 
bert.” 

“ It is no use, Bertie; you must bring the antipodes together, 
before you and Caroline will think alike,” interposed Percy, 
perceiving with regret the-expression of pain on his brother’s 
face, and always ready to guard him either from physical or 
mental suffering, feeling instinctively that, from his extraordi¬ 
nary mind and vivid sense of duty, he was liable to the latter, 
from many causes which other natures would pass unnoticed. 

Miss Harcourt did not join the conversation. It had always 
been Mrs. Hamilton’s wish that in their intercourse with each 
other, her children should be as unrestrained as if they had 
been alone. Had Caroline’s sentiments received encourage¬ 
ment, she would have interfered; but the raillery of Percy and 
the earnestness of Herbert she knew were more likely to pro¬ 
duce an effect than any thing like a rebuke from herself, which 
would only have caused restraint before her in future. It was 
through this perfect unrestraint that Mrs. Hamilton had become 
so thoroughly acquainted with the several characters of her 
children. That Caroline’s sentiments caused her often real 
pain was true, but it was far better to know them, and endeavor 
to correct and remove them, by causing education to bear upon 
the faults they revealed, than to find them concealed from her 
by the constant fear of words of reproof. 

To remove Herbert’s unusual seriousness, Percy continued, 
laughingly — 

“ Miss Harcourt, what are your thoughts on this momentous 
subject? It is no use asking Herbert’s, we all know them 
without his telling us; but you are almost the principally con¬ 
cerned of the present party, for Ellen will bring you the trouble 
of another pupil.” 

“ I shall not reg* „t it, Percy; but only shall rejoice if I can 
in any way lessen your mother’s increased charge. As for 
what your cousins will be like, I candidly tell you I have 
scarcely thought about it. I have no doubt we shall find them 
strange and shy at first; but we must do all we can to make 
them feel they are no strangers.’ 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


67 


“And now, then, it only remains for the right honorable me 
to speak; and really Emmy and Herbert and you have told 
my story, and left me nothing. I do not know whether I am 
pleased or not, but I am very sorry for them; and it will be 
capital if this Master Edward turns out a lad of spirit and 
mischief, and not over-learned or too fond of study — one, in 
fact, that I can associate with, without feeling such a painful 
sensation of inferiority as I do when in company with my right 
reverend brother.” 

“ Dear Percy, do not call me reverend,” said Herbert, ap¬ 
pealingly : “ I feel it almost a mockery now, when I am so 
very far from being worthy to become a clergyman.” 

“ You are a good fellow, Bertie; and I will not tease you, if 
I can help it — but really I do not mean it for mockery; you 
know, or ought to know, that you are better now than half the 
clergymen who have taken orders, and as much superior to me 
in goodness as in talent.” 

“ Indeed I know no such thing, Percy; I am not nearly so 
strong in health as you are, and am therefore naturally more 
fond of quiet pleasures: and as for talent, if you were as fond 
of application as of frolic, you would leave me far behind.” 

“ Wrong, Bertie, quite wrong! but think of yourself as you 
please, I know what everybody thinks of you. Hush! is that 
the sound of a carriage, or only the wind making love to the 
old oaks?” 

“ The wind making love, Percy! ” repeated Emmeline, laugh¬ 
ing ; “ I neither hear that, nor the carriage wheels kissing the 
ground.” 

“ Well done, Tiny! my poetry is beaten hollow; but there — 
there — I am sure it is a carriage ! ” and Percy bounded from 
the table so impetuously as nearly to upset it, flung back the 
curtain, and looked eagerly from the window. 

Herbert closed his book to listen; Emmeline left her nearly- 
completed map, and joined Percy; Caroline evidently tried to 
resume serenity, but, too proud to evince it, industriously pur¬ 
sued her work, breaking the thread almost every time that she 
drew out the needle. 

“ It is nothing, Percy; how could you disappoint us so ? ” said 
Herbert, in a tone of regret. 

“ My good fellow, you must be deaf — listen! nearer and 
louder — and, look there, Emmeline, through those trees, don’t 
you see something glimmering ? that must be the lamp of the 
carriage.” 

“Nonsense, Percy, it is a glowworm.” 


68 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


“A glowworm! why, Emmeline, the thought of seeing mamma 
has blinded you. What glowworm ever came so steadily for¬ 
ward ? No ? there is no mistake now. Hurrah, it is the car¬ 
riage : here Robert, Morris, Elias, all of you, to the hall! to the 
hall! The carriage is coming down the avenue.” And with 
noisy impatience, the young gentleman ran into the hall, assem¬ 
bled all the servants he had named, and others too, all eager to 
welcome the travellers; flung wide back the massive door, and 
he and Herbert both were on the steps several minutes before 
the carriage came in sight. 


CHAPTER II. 

THREE ENGLISH HOMES, AND THEIR INMATES. 

If more than the preceding conversation were needed to re¬ 
veal the confidence and love with which Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton 
were regarded by their children, the delight, the unrestrained 
expressions of affection, with which by every one of the young 
party they were received, would have -evinced it still more 
clearly. Herbert was very speedily on his favorite seat, a low 
stool at his mother’s feet. Emmeline, for that one half hour at 
least, assumed her still unresigned privilege, as the youngest 
and tiniest, to quietly slip in her lap; Percy was talking to his 
father, making Edward perfectly at home, saying many kind 
words to Ellen, and caressing his mother, all almost at the same 
moment. Caroline was close to her father, with her arm round 
his neck; and Miss Harcourt was kindly disrobing Ellen from 
her many wraps, and making her lie quietly on a sofa near her 
aunt; who, even in that moment of delightful reunion with her 
own, had yet time and thought, by a few judicious words, to 
remove the undefinable, but painful sensation of loneliness, 
which was creeping over the poor child as she gazed on her 
bright, happy-looking cousins; and thought if to her own mo¬ 
ther Edward’s beauty and happiness had made him so much 
more beloved than herself, what claim could she have on her 
aunt? Ellen could not have said that such were the thoughts 
that filled her eyes with tears, and made her heart so heavy; 
she only knew that much as- she had loved her aunt during the 



HOME INFLUENCE. 69 

journey, her kiss and kind words at that moment made her love 
her more than ever. 

Never had there been a happier meal at Oakwood than the 
substantial tea which was speedily ready for the travellers. So 
much was there to hear and tell: Percy’s wild sallies; Caro¬ 
line’s animated replies (she had now quite recovered her tem¬ 
per) ; Herbert’s gentle care of Ellen, by whom he had stationed 
himself (even giving up to her his usual seat by his mother) ; 
Emmeline’s half shy, half eager, efforts to talk to her cousins; 
Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton’s earnest interest, all combined, long 
before the meal was concluded, to make Edward feel perfectly 
at his ease, and very happy, and greatly to remove Ellen’s un¬ 
acknowledged dread. The time passed so quickly, that there 
was a general start when the prayer bell sounded, though it 
was nearly two hours after the usual time. 

“Are you prepared for to-night, my boy?” Mr. Hamilton 
asked of Herbert, as they rose to adjourn to the library, where, 
. morning and evening, it had been the custom of the Hamilton 
family for many generations, to assemble their whole household 
for family devotion. 

“Yes, papa; I v^as not quite sure whether you would arrive 
to-night.” 

“Then I will not resume my office till to-morrow, Herbert, 
that I may have the gratification of hearing you officiate,” replied 
his father, linking his son’s arm in his, and affectionately glanc¬ 
ing on the bright blush that rose to the boy’s cheek. 

There was a peculiar sweetness in Herbert Hamilton’s voice, 
even in speaking; and as he read the service of the lessons for 
the evening, adding one or two brief explanations when neces¬ 
sary, and more especially when reading, or rather praying, the 
beautiful petitions appropriated to family worship, there was an 
earnest solemnity of tone and manner, presenting a strange 
contrast, yet beautiful, combining with the boyish form and 
youthful face, on which the lamp, suspended over the reading- 
desk, shed such a soft and holy light. The occasional prayer 
which was added to the usual evening service, was always cho¬ 
sen by the reader; and Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were surprised 
and affected at the earnestness with which their almost angel 
boy selected and read over one peculiarly bearing on the events 
of that evening; the introduction of their orphan relatives, for 
compassion and blessing on them, and grace for increased kind¬ 
ness and forbearance in their intercourse with one another — 
Miss Harcourt, his brother and sisters, knew well to what he 
alluded, and all but one responded with earnestness and truth. 


70 


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Caroline could not enter into Herbert’s feelings even at that 
moment: it was a great effort even to prevent a feeling of irri¬ 
tation, believing that he directly pointed at her, and determin¬ 
ing that as neither he nor any one else had any right to inter¬ 
fere with her private thoughts, and that they could do harm 
to none while confined to her own breast, she resolved not to 
overcome them, and so could not join with any fervor in the 
prayer. 

To Edward all was strange. While the graces of his body 
and mind had been most sedulously cultivated, he had never 
been taught even the public ordinances of religion, much less 
its inward spirit. His mother had often and often felt a pang 
of reproach, at thus neglecting that which an inward voice 
would whisper was most essential; but she was wont to silence 
the pang by the determined idea, that she was neither worthy 
nor able to give him such solemn lessons, and that it would 
come by instinct to him in after years. There was time enough 
for him to think of such things. He had been now and then to 
church, but it was a mere form, regarded as a weary duty, from 
which he escaped whenever he could. The present scene, then, 
completely bewildered him. He had always fancied himself 
superior to any of the boys he had associated with; but as he 
looked at and listened to Herbert, who seemed at most only two 
years older than himself, he became sensible of a very strange 
and disagreeable, but a very decided feeling of inferiority; and 
then, too, it was so incomprehensible, the servants all joining 
them, a class of people whom in India he had been taught so to 
consider his inferiors, that even to speak with them was a spe¬ 
cies of degradation; and he was destined to be still more sur¬ 
prised, for before they left the library, he heard his aunt and 
uncle address them all, and say a few kind words, and make 
inquiries after their families to each. 

To Ellen that evening service recalled some of Mr. Myrvin’s 
instructions, and seemed to help her to realize those new 
thoughts and feelings, which she had learned, for the first time, 
in Wales. Her father had, indeed, the last year of his life tried 
to give her some ideas of religion; but having only so very 
lately begun to think seriously himself, he felt diffident and un¬ 
certain of his own powers, and so left an impression more of 
awe toward the subject than of love, which to a disposition such 
as Ellen’s was unfortunate. 

A very short time sufficed for Percy and Emmeline to intro¬ 
duce their cousins to all the delights and mysteries of their dear 
old home; and Oakwood Hall was really a place for imagina- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


71 


tion to revel in. It was a large castellated mansion, fraught 
with both the associations of the past, and the comforts of the 
present. The injuries which the original mansion had received 
during the civil war of Charles I., had, when the family returned 
at the Restoration, caused much of the old house to be pulled 
down, and replaced with larger rooms, and greater conven¬ 
iences for a modern dwelling-house, retaining, however, quite 
sufficient of the past to throw interest around it. 

The wings were still flanked with turrets, which were Percy’s 
and Emmeline’s delight; and the many stair-cases, leading into 
all sorts of nooks and corners — and the small and most un¬ 
comfortable rooms, because some of them happened to be hung 
with tapestry, and had those small narrow windows sunk in 
deep recesses — were pronounced by both far more enjoyable 
than the beautiful suit of rooms forming the centre of the man¬ 
sion, and the dwelling of the family. These were only saved 
from being disagreeably modern — Percy would declare — by 
their beautiful richly-polished oaken panels, and by the recesses 
which the large windows still formed, making almost a room by 
themselves. The hall, too, with its superb sweep of staircase 
and broad carved oaken balustrade, leading to a gallery above, 
which opened on the several sleeping apartments, and thus per¬ 
mitting the full height of the mansion, from base to roof, to be 
visible from the hall. The doors visible in the gallery opened 
mostly on dressing-rooms, or private sitting-rooms, which led to 
the large, airy sleeping-rooms, to which the servants had access 
by back staircases leading from their hall; and so leaving the 
oaken staircase and gallery entirely to the use of the family, 
and of many a game of noisy play had that gallery been the 
scene. There had been a beautiful little chapel adjoining the 
mansion, but it was mercilessly burned to the ground by the in¬ 
fatuated Puritans, and never restored ; the venerable old church 
of the village henceforth serving the family of the hall. 

Situated on the banks of the Dart, whose serpentine wind¬ 
ings gave it the appearance of a succession of most lovely lakes, 
Nature had been so lavish of her beauties in the garden and 
park, especially in the magnificent growth of the superb oaks, 
from which the estate took its name, that it was not much won¬ 
der Mrs. Hamilton, always an intense lover of nature, should 
have become so attached to her home, as never to feel the least 
inclination to leave it. . She did not wish her girls to visit Lon¬ 
don till a few months before Caroline was old enough to be in¬ 
troduced, to give them then finishing masters ; and to that time 
she of course always looked, as demanding from her part of the 


72 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


year to be spent in towp. The career of Eleanor, the recollec¬ 
tions of the frivolity and error into which her own early youth 
had been thrown, had given her not only a distaste, but an act¬ 
ual dread of London for her girls, till such principles and asso¬ 
ciations had been instilled which would enable them to pass 
through the ordeal of successive seasons without any change of 
character or feeling. Her sons, since their tenth year, had 
more than once accompanied their father to the metropolis; but 
though these visits were always sources of enjoyment, espe¬ 
cially to Percy, they never failed to return with unabated 
affection to their home, anL to declare there was no place in 
England like it. 

Mr. Hamilton, though in neither profession nor business, was 
far from being an idle man. His own estate was sufficiently 
large, and contained a sufficient number of dependents, for 
whose mortal and immortal welfare he was responsible, to give 
him much employment ; and in addition to this, the home inter¬ 
ests and various aspects of his country were so strongly en¬ 
twined with his very being — that, though always refusing to 
enter Parliament, he was the prompter and encourager of many 
a political movement, having for its object amelioration of the 
poor, and improvement of the whole social system ; closely con¬ 
nected with which, as he was, they gave him neither public 
fame nor private emolument. He acted in all things from the 
same single-hearted integrity and high honor which caused him 
to refuse the title proffered to his father. Her husband’s con¬ 
nection with many celebrated characters, and her own corres¬ 
pondence, and occasional visits from her friends to Oakwood, 
prevented Mrs. Hamilton’s interest from too complete concen¬ 
tration in her home, as, in her first retirement, many feared. 
She had, too, some friends near her, whose society gave her 
both pleasure and interest; and many acquaintances who would 
have visited more than she felt any inclination for, had she not 
had the happy power of quietly pursuing her own path, and yet 
conciliating all. 

The Rev. William Howard had accepted Mr. Hamilton’s 
eagerly-proffered invitation to become his rector, and undertake 
the education of his boys, from very peculiar circumstances. 
He had been minister of a favorite church in one of the south¬ 
ern towns, and master of an establishment for youths of high 
rank, in both which capacities he had given universal satisfac¬ 
tion. The reprehensible conduct of some of his pupils, carried 
on at first so secretly as to elude his knowledge, at length be¬ 
came so notorious as to demand examination. He had at first 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


73 


refused all credence, but when proved, by the confused replies 
of all, and half confession of some, he briefly and emphatically 
laid before them the enormity of their conduct, and declared 
that, as confidence was entirely broken between them, he would 
resign the honor of their education, refusing to admit them any 
longer as members of his establishment. In vain the young 
men implored him to spare them the disgrace of such an ex¬ 
pulsion ; he was inexorable. 

This conduct, in itself so upright, was painted by the smart¬ 
ing offenders in such colors, that Mr. Howard gradually but 
surely found his school abandoned, and himself so misrepre¬ 
sented, that a spirit less self-possessed and secure in its own 
integrity must have sunk beneath it. But he had some true 
friends, and none more active and earnest than Mr. Hamilton. 
A very brief residence at Oakwood Rectory removed even the 
recollection of the injustice he had experienced; and he him¬ 
self, as pastor and friend, proved a treasure to high and low. 
Ten other youths, sons of the neighboring gentry, became his 
pupils, their fathers gladly following in Mr. Hamilton’s lead. 

About a mile and a half across the park was Moorlands, the 
residence of Lady Helen Grahame, whose name had been so 
often mentioned by the young Hamiltons. Her husband Mont¬ 
rose Grahame, had been Arthur Hamilton’s earliest friend, at 
home, at college, and in manhood. Lady Helen the youngest 
daughter of a marquis, had been intimate with Emmeline and 
Eleanor Manvers from childhood, and had always admired and 
wished to resemble the former, but always failed, she believed, 
from being constituted so differently ; others might have thought 
from her utter want of energy and mental strength. The mar¬ 
riage at first appeared likely to be a happy one, but it was too 
soon proved the contrary. Grahame was a man of strict, per¬ 
haps severe principles; his wife, though she never did any 
thing morally wrong, scarcely knew the meaning of the word. 
Provoked with himself for his want of discrimination, in ima¬ 
gining Lady Helen so different to the being she really was ; 
more than once discovering that she did not speak the exact 
truth, or act with the steady uprightness he demanded, his 
manner became almost austere; and, in consequence, becom¬ 
ing more and more afraid of him, Lady Helen sunk lower and 
lower in his esteem. 

Two girls and a boy were the fruits of this union. Lady 
Helen had made a great many excellent resolutions with regard 
to their rearing and education, which she eagerly confided to 
Mrs. Hamilton, but when the time of trial came, weakness and 

7 


74 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


false indulgence so predominated, that Graliame, to counteract 
these evil influences, adopted a contrary extreme, and, by a 
system of constant reserve and severity, became an object of as 
much terror to his children as he was to his wife. But he did 
not pursue this conduct without pain, and never did he visit 
Oakwood without bitter regret that his home was not the same. 

Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton had often tried to alter the aspect of 
affairs at Moorlands ; the former, by entreating Graliame to be 
less severe; the latter, by urging Lady Helen to a firmer mode 
of conduct. But those friendly efforts were as yet entirely 
useless. Grahame became a member of Parliament, which 
took his family to London for five or six months in the year — 
a particularly agreeable change to Lady Helen, who then asso¬ 
ciated with her sisters, whose families were conducted much on 
the same fashion as her own. but unfortunately only increasing 
the discomfort of Moorlands when they returned to it. And 
this was the more to be regretted, from the fact that both Gra¬ 
hame and his wife were full of good intentions, and had the 
one been more yielding, and the other more firm, there might 
have been no small'share of happiness for both. 

But heavy as Lady Helen thought her trial in the want of 
her husband’s confidence and love, and which she had greatly 
brought upon herself, it was light in comparison with that of 
Mrs. Greville, another near neighbor and valued friend of 
Mrs. Hamilton. She had loved and married a man whose 
winning manners and appearance, and an ever-varying flow of 
intelligent conversation, had completely concealed, till too late, 
his real character. Left at a very early age his own master, 
with a capital estate and large fortune; educated at a very 
large public school, at which he learned literally nothing but 
vice, and how effectually to conceal it; courted and flattered 
wherever he went, he became vain, overbearing, and extrava¬ 
gant ; with no pursuit but that of gambling in all its varieties, 
even hunting and shooting could not be thoroughly enjoyed 
without some large bets depending on tile day’s sport: his 
thoughts from boyhood were so completely centred in self, 
that he had affection for nothing else. He had indeed fancied 
he loved Jessie Summers, when he had so successfully wooed 
her; but the Elusion was speedily dispelled, and repeatedly he 
cursed his folly for plaguing himself with a wife. His first 
child, too, was a girl and that annoyed him still more; and 
when, the next year, a boy was granted, he certainly rejoiced, 
but it was such rejoicing as to fill his wife’s heart with an agony 
of dread; for he swore he would make his boy as jovial a 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


75 


spirit as himself, and that her namby-pamby ideas should have 
nothing to do with him. 

It was indeed a difficult and painful task Mrs. Greville had 
to perform. Though her husband would spend weeks and even 
months at a time away, the impressions she so earnestly and 
prayerfully sought to instil into her son’s heart were, or appear¬ 
ed to be, completely destroyed by her husband’s interference 
the whole time of his sojourn at his home. It was his pleasure 
to thwart her every plan, laugh at her fine notions, make a 
mockery of all that was good, and holy, and self-denying; and 
all in the presence of his children; succeeding in making 
Alfred frequently guilty of disrespect and unkindness, but fail¬ 
ing entirely with Mary, who, though of such a fragile frame 
and gentle spirit that her father’s visits almost always caused 
her a fit of illness, so idolized her suffering but never-murmur¬ 
ing mother, that she only redoubled her attention and respect 
whenever she saw her more tried than usual. This conduct, 
of course, only made her an object, equally with her mother, 
of her father’s sneers and taunts, but she bore it with the true 
spirit of a martyr. Suffering was doing for her what Herbert 
Hamilton was naturally — making her spiritual and thoughtful 
far beyond her years, and drawing her and Herbert together 
with such a bond of mutual reverence and sympathy, that to 
talk to him was her greatest consolation, and to endeavor to 
lessen her sorrows one of his dearest pleasures. # 

Alfred was not naturally an evil-disposed boy, and, when his 
father was from home, seldom failed either in respect or obedi¬ 
ence. Mrs. Greville possessed the rather rare combination of 
extreme submissiveness with a natural dignity and firmness, 
which enabled her to retain the reverence and sympathy of her 
friends and her household, without once stopping to receive 
their pity. It was generally supposed, by those who did not 
know her personally, that she was one of those too soft and 
self-denying characters who bring on themselves the evils they 
deplore ; but this in Mrs. Greville’s case was a very great mis¬ 
take. It was impossible to associate even casually with her, 
without feeling intuitively that she suffered deeply, but the 
emotion such conviction called was respect alone. 

As anxious and as earnest a parent as Mrs. Hamilton her¬ 
self, Mrs. Greville failed not to inculcate the good in both her 
children, and still more forcibly, when they became old enough 
to observe, by example than by precept. But with Alfred 
there must have been an utter hopelessness as to the fruit of her 
anxious labors, had she not possessed that clinging, single-heart- 


76 


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ed trust which taught her that no difficulty should deter from a 
simple duty, and that nothing was too hard for Him who — if 
He saw that she shrunk not from the charge and responsibility 
which, in permitting her to become a mother, he had given, and 
did all she could to counteract those evil influences, for the re¬ 
moval of which she had no power — would, in His own good 
time, reward, if not on earth — with Him in Heaven; and so 
untiringly, as unmurmuringly, she struggled on. 


CHAPTER III. 

HOME SCENE.-VISITORS.-CHILDISH MEDITATIONS. 

The part of the day which, to Emmeline Hamilton was the 
happiest of all, was that in which she and Caroline, and now, of 
course, Ellen, were with their mother alone. Not that she 
particularly liked the very quiet employment of plain work, 
which was then their usual occupation, but that she could talk 
without the least restraint either about her lessons, or her plea¬ 
sures, or her thoughts, and the stories or histories she had been 
reading, and* if she thought wrong no one ever corrected her so 
delightfully, so impressively as “mamma.” The mornings, 
from three to four hours, according as their age and studies re¬ 
quired, were always under the control of Miss Harcourt, with 
such visits from Mrs. Hamilton as gave an increased interest 
to exertion, and such interruption only as permitted their prac¬ 
tice and lessons in music, which three times a week Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton had as yet herself bestowed. The dressing-bell always 
rung at half-past three, and dinner was at four, to allow the 
lads’ return from Mr. Howard’s, whose daily lessons commenced 
at nine and concluded at three. From half-past one to half¬ 
past three, in the very short days, was devoted to recreation, 
walking, or driving, and in the longer, to Emmeline’s favorite 
time — an hour at work with her mother, and the remainder 
to the preparation of lessons and exercises for the next day, 
which in the winter occupied from five to six. From six to 
seven in the same generally gloomy season they read aloud 
some entertaining book with their mother and Miss Harcourt, 
and seven was the delightful hour of a general reunion at tea, 
and signal for such recreation till nine as they felt inclined for ; 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


77 


their brothers having been employed for Mr. Howard part of 
the time between dinner and tea, with sufficient earnestness to 
enjoy the rest and recreation afterward, quite as buoyantly and 
gladly as their.sisters; and many a merry dance enlivened their 
winter evenings. 

In the summer, of course, this daily routine was frequently 
varied by most delightful excursions in the country. Mrs. 
Hamilton earnestly longing to implant a love of Nature and all 
its fresh, pure associations in the minds of her children while 
yet young, knowing that once obtained, the pleasures of the 
world would be far less likely to obtain too powerful dominion. 
That which the world often terms romance, she felt to be a 
high, pure sense of poetry in the Universe and in Man, which 
she was quite as anxious to instil as many mothers to root out. 
She did not believe that to cultivate the spiritual needed the 
banishment of the matter of fact; but she believed, that to 
infuse the latter with the former would be their best and surest 
preventive against all that was low and mean; their best help 
in the realization of a constant unfailing piety. For the same 
reason she cultivated a taste for the beautiful, not only in her 
girls, but in her boys — and beauty, not in arts and nature 
alone, but in character. She did not allude to beauty of merely 
the high and striking kind, but to the lowly virtues, struggles, 
faith, and heroism in the poor — their forbearance and kindness 
to one another — marking something to admire, even in the 
most rugged and surly, that at first sight would seem so little 
worthy of notice. It was gradually, and almost unconsciously, 
to accustom her daughters to such a train of thought and senti¬ 
ment, that she so particularly laid aside one part of the day to 
have them with her alone ; ostensibly, it was to give part of 
their day to working for the many poor, to whom gifts of ready¬ 
made clothing are sometimes much more valuable than money ; 
but the education of that one hour she knew might, for the 
right cultivation of the heart, do more than the mere teaching 
Of five or six, and that education, much as she loved and valued 
Miss Harcourt, she had from the first resolved should come 
from her alone. 

To Emmeline this mode of life was so happy, she could not 
imagine any thing happier. But .Caroline often and often 
envied her great friend Annie Grahame, and believed that 
occasional visits to London would make her much happier than 
remaining all the year round at Oakwood, and only with her 
own family. She knew the expression of such sentiments 
would, meet no sympathy at home, and certainly not obtain 
7 * 


78 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


their gratification, so she tried to check them, except when in 
company with Annie and Lady Helen; but her mother knew 
them, and, from the discontent and unhappiness they so often 
engendered in her child, caused her both pain and uneasiness. 
But she did not waver in her plans, because only in Emmeline 
they seemed to succeed: nor did she, as perhaps some over- 
scrupulous mothers would have done, check Caroline’s associa¬ 
tion with Miss Grahame. She knew that those principles must 
be indeed of little worth, which could only actuate in retire¬ 
ment, and when free from temptation. That to prevent inti¬ 
macy with all, except with those of whom she exactly approved, 
would be impossible, if she ever meant her daughters to enter 
the world; and therefore she endeavored so to obtain their 
unrestrained confidence and affection, as to be regarded, both 
now and when they were young women, as their first, best, and 
truest friend; and that end obtained, intimacies with their 
young companions, however varied their character, she felt 
would do no permanent harm. 

“ Dear, dear mamma! ” exclaimed Emmeline, one morning 
“^aHbut a week after her parents’ return, and dropping her work 
to speak more eagerly, “you cannot think how delightful it 
does seem to have you at home again; I missed this hour of 
the day so very much; I did not know how much I loved it 
when I always had it, but when you were away, every time 
the hour came I missed you, and longed for you so much that — 
I am afraid you will think me very silly — I could not help 
crying.” 

“ Why, how Percy must have laughed at you, Emmy! ” 

“ Indeed, he did not, mamma; I think he felt half inclined 
to cry too; the first day or two that he came home from Mr. 
Howard’s, and could not rush up into your dressing-room, as he 
always does. He said it was a very different thing for you to 
go from home, than ,for him to go to London, and he did not 
like it at all; nor Herbert, nor Caroline, neither; though they 
did not say so much about it.” 

“ I did not miss mamma after the first, quite so much as you 
did, Emmeline,” replied her sister, ingenuously; “ because 
when Lady Helen returned from London, she made me go 
there so often, and as I know you never refuse me that indul¬ 
gence, mamma, and Miss Harcourt did not object, I was glad 
to do so.” 

“ I have only one objection, my dear Caroline, and I think 
you know what that is.” 

“ That whenever I am'with Annie I think and wish more 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


79 


about going to London, mamma; I am afraid I do; but indeed 
I try to think that you must know what is better for me, and 
try not to be discontented, though sometimes I know I do not 
succeed,” and her eyes filled with tears. 

“ I am satisfied that you endeavor to trust my experience, 
my love; I am quite aware of all the difficulties you have to 
encounter in doing so, and therefore your most trifling conquest 
of self is a great source of comfort to me. I myself should feel 
that the pain of increased discontent, and so of course increased 
difficulty in conquering its constant accompaniment, ill temper, 
would more than balance the pleasure of Annie’s society, and 
so not indulge in the one so often at the expense of the other; 
but of that you are yourself the best judge, and you know in 
such a case I always permit you to be a free agent. But what 
has become of Mary, Emmeline ? I begged Mrs. Greville to 
let you be as much together as possible during my absence; 
did not her society afford you some pleasure ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, mamma, a great deal; but unfortunately Mr. Gre¬ 
ville was at home almost all the time you were away, and poor 
Mary could not often leave her mother, and I don’t feel as if it 
were quite right for me to go so often there, when he is at 
home. I am sure Mrs. Greville and Mary must both feel still 
more uncomfortable when any one is there to see how unkind 
he is, and hear the cruel things he says. Oh, how I do wish I 
could make poor Mary more happy! ” 

“ She would tell you that affection is a great comfort to her, 
Emmy.” 

“ Yours and Herbert’s may be, mamma, because you are 
both so much better and wiser than I am; but I can do so 
little, so very little.” 

“ You can be and are a great source of interest to her, my 
dear; and when we wish very much to make another person 
happy, you may be quite sure that the most trifling act gives 
pleasure; but Ellen looks very much as if she would like to 
know who this Mary is, that is so tried — suppose you tell her.” 

Emmeline eagerly obeyed, painting her friend in such glow¬ 
ing colors, that Ellen felt, however tried she might be, a person 
so good and holy must be happy, notwithstanding; besides, to 
be loved so by Mrs. Hamilton and Herbert, discovered to her 
mind such superior qualities, that she almost wondered how 
Emmeline could speak of her so familiarly, and think of her as 
her own particular friend. But the conversation on her, and 
then on other topics, so interested her, that she was almost as 
sorry as her cousin, when it was interrupted by a visit from 
Lady Helen Grahame and her daughter. 


80 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


“ Returned at length, dearest Emmeline! ” was the former’s 
lively greeting, and evincing far more warmth of manner than 
was usual to her. “ Do you know, the banks of the Dart have 
seemed so desolate without their guardian spirit, that the very 
flowers have hung their heads, and the trees are withered ? ” 

“ I rather think the change of season, and not my absence, 
has been the cause of these melancholy facts,” replied Mrs. 
Hamilton, in the same tone ; “ but even London will not change 
your kind thoughts for me, Helen.” 

“ Nay, I must follow the example of my neighbors, rich and 
poor, whom you may appeal to as to the fact of your absence 
causing terrible lamentation; ask this naughty little girl too, 
who scarcely ever came to see me, because she had so many 
things to do to please mamma; but forgive me,” she added, 
more seriously, as she glanced on the deep mourning of her 
friend, and indeed of all the group; “ what a cold, heartless 
being you must believe me to run on in this way, when there 
has been so sad a cause for your absence — poor Eleanor ! ” 

“ I trust we may say happy Eleanor, my dear Helen; mercy 
has indeed been shown to her and to me — but we will talk of 
this another time. Annie,” she continued, addressing Miss 
Grahame, who was already deep in conversation with Caro¬ 
line, “ I have another little girl to introduce to you, whom I 
hope you will be as friendly with as with Caroline and Emme¬ 
line.” 

The young lady turned round at the words, but her sole no¬ 
tice of Ellen, who had come timidly forward, was a haughty 
stare, a fashionable courtesy, and a few unintelligible words, 
which caused Emmeline to feel so indignant, that it was with 
difficulty she kept silence, and made Ellen so uncomfortable, 
that it was with even more than her usual shyness, she received 
Lady Helen’s proffered hand. 

“ And why not introduce her to me too, Emmeline ? I knew 
your mother when she was little older than you are, my dear; 
so I hope you will learn to know and to like me as fast as you 
can.” 

Ellen might have found courage to reply for there was an 
interest attached to all w T ho had known her mother; but as she 
raised her eyes to speak, she again encountered Annie’s rude 
and disagreeable stare, and the words died on her lips. The 
young party were, however, soon all in the garden, for Mrs. 
Hamilton never made any scruple in dismissing her children, 
when she wished to speak pn subjects she did not choose them 
to hear; and she was anxious so to relate Eleanor’s illness and 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


81 


change of sentiment, as to remove the impressions which her 
early career had left on Lady Helen’s memory. 

“ It must be nearly time for my brothers to be returning; 
shall we go and look for them, Ellen ? I dare say Edward will 
have a great deal to tell you,” was Emmeline’s affectionate ad¬ 
dress, as Annie and Caroline turned in a different direction; 
and generally judging others by herself, she thought that being 
Edward’s first day of regular attendance on Mr. Howard, Ellen 
would like to know all about it as soon as possible, and they 
proceeded accordingly. 

“ Well, how do you like your new cousins, what are they 
like ? ” inquired Miss Grahame, the moment she had Caroline 
entirely to herself. 

“ Edward I think I may like very much; he is so affectionate 
and so good-natured, and as merry and full of fun as Percy. 
And he is so handsome, Annie, I think even you would admire 
him.” 

“ Then altogether he must be very unlike his sister. I never 
saw a girl so plain, and I am sure she looks as if no fun could 
exist near her.” 

“ Mamma says we must remember how short a time has 
elapsed since poor aunt’s death, and also that Ellen is not strong 
enough to be very lively.” 

“ That does not at all account for her looking cross. I am 
sure she has nothing to be ill-tempered about; there are few 
girls in her situation who would have made one of your family, 
as she will be. Mamma said it would be a very anxious thing 
for Mrs. Hamilton.” 

“Mamma did seem to think so,” replied Caroline, thought¬ 
fully ; “ but I fancy you are wrong, Annie. Ellen has not yet 
given any proof of ill-temper.” 

“ She has had no time, my dear; but no one can be deceived 
by such a face. My cousin, Lady Adelaide Maldon, told me 
she could always judge people by their faces. But do you like 
her. as well as her brother, Caroline ? ” 

“Ask me that question this day month, my dear Annie; I can 
not answer you now, for I really do not know. I certainly do 
not see any thing particularly striking in her yet — I do not un¬ 
derstand her; she is so dreadfully shy or timid, and so very in¬ 
animate, one cannot tell whether she is pleased or sorry. To 
tell you the real truth, I am afraid I shall not like her.” 

“ Why afraid ? ” 

“ Because mamma would be so sorry were she to know it. I 
know she wishes us to love one another.” 


82 


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“ Nonsense, Caroline. Mrs. Hamilton cannot be so unrea¬ 
sonable as to expect you to love everybody alike.” 

“Mamma is never unreasonable,” replied Caroline, with 
spirit; “ and I do wish, Annie, you would treat Ellen exactly 
as you do us.” 

“ Indeed, I shall not. What is Colonel Fortescue’s daughter 
to me ? Now don’t be angry, Caroline, you and I are too old 
friends to quarrel for nothing: I shall certainly hate Ellen alto¬ 
gether, if she is to be a subject of dispute. Come, look kind 
again;” and the caress, with which she concluded, restored 
Caroline’s serenity, and other subjects were discussed between 
them. 

Annie Grahame was a few months younger than Caroline 
Hamilton, (who was nearly thirteen,) but from having been 
emancipated from the nursery and school-room at a very early 
age, and made her mother’s companion and confidant in all her 
home vexations — very pretty and engaging — she was very 
much noticed, and. her visits to her titled relations in London, 
by causing her to imitate their fashionable manners, terms of 
speech, thoughts on dress, and rank, &c., made her a woman 
many years before her time; and though to Lady Helen’s family 
and to Lady Helen herself this made her still more agreeable, 
from becoming so very companionable; to Mrs. Hamilton, and 
to all, in fact, who loved childhood for childhood’s sake, it was 
a source of real regret, as banishing all the freshness and art¬ 
lessness and warmth which ought to have been the characteris¬ 
tics of her age. Her father was the only one of her own family 
who did not admire — and so tried to check — this assumption 
of fine ladyism, on the part of his daughter; but it was not 
likely he could succeed, and he only estranged from him the 
affections of his child. 

Annie Grahame had a great many fashionable acquaintances 
in London, but she still regarded Caroline Hamilton as her fa¬ 
vorite friend. Why, she could not exactly tell, except that it 
was so very, very delightful to have some one in the country to 
whom she could dilate on all the pleasures of London, display 
her new dresses, new music, drawings, work, &c. (not however 
considering it at.all necessary to mention that her work and 
drawings were only half her own, and Caroline was much too 
truthful herself to imagine it, and her mother too anxious to re¬ 
tain that guileless simplicity to enlighten her, as she was well 
capable of doing.) Annie’s quick eye discovered that at such 
times Caroline certainly envied her, and she imagined she must 
be a person of infinite consequence to excite such a feeling, and 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


83 


this was such a pleasant sensation, that she sought Caroline as 
much as possible during their stay at Moorlands. Of Mrs. 
Hamilton, indeed, she stood in such uncomfortable awe, though 
that lady never addressed her except in kindness, that as she 
grew older, it actually became dislike; but this only increased 
her intimacy with Caroline, whom she had determined should 
be as unlike her mother as possible; and as this friendship was 
the only one of his daughter’s sentiments which gave Mr. Gra- 
hame unmixed satisfaction, he encouraged it by bringing them 
together as often as he could. 

Emmeline and Ellen, meanwhile, had pursued their walk in 
silence, both engrossed with their own thoughts (for that child¬ 
ren of eleven years, indeed of any age, do not think, because 
when asked what they are thinking about their answer is inva¬ 
riably “ Nothing,” is one of those mistaken notions which 
modern education is, we hope, exploding.) Emmeline was so 
indignant with Annie that she felt more sure than ever that 
she did not and could never like her. “ She is always talking 
of things mamma says are of such little consequence, and is so 
proud and contemptuous, and I am afraid she does not always 
tell the exact truth. I wonder if it is wrong to feel so toward 
her; one day when I am quite alone with mamma, I will ask 
her,” was the tenor of her meditations. 

But Ellen, though Annie’s greeting had caused her to shrink 
still more into herself, and so produced pain, was not thinking 
only of her. The whole of that hour’s intimate association 
with Mrs. Hamilton had puzzled her; she had doted on her 
father — she was sure she loved her aunt almost as dearly, but 
could she ever have given words to that affection as Emmeline 
had done, and as Edward always did ? and so, perhaps, after 
all, she did not feel as they did, though the wish was so strong 
to caress her aunt, and sit as close and lovingly by her as Her¬ 
bert and Emmeline and even Edward did, that its very indul¬ 
gence seemed to give her pain. Then Caroline’s confession 
too — could she ever have had courage to confess the indul¬ 
gence of a feeling which she knew to be wrong — and all her 
aunt had said both to Caroline and Emmeline so fastened on 
her mind as to make her head ache, and she quite started when 
a loud shout sounded near them. 

“ It is only Percy,” said Emmeline laughing; I dare say he 
and Edward are running a race or having some sort of fun.” 
And so they were; laughing, shouting, panting, they came full 
speed, darting in and out the trees in every variety of mathe¬ 
matical figures their ingenuity could frame; but as soon as 


84 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


Percy’s restless eye discovered Emmeline, lie directed liis 
course toward lier, exclaiming, “ Holla, Edward, stop running 
for to-day: come here, and let us be sober. Why, Tiny, what 
brings you and Ellen out now ? It is not your usual time.” 

“ Ellen, Ellen, I have had such a happy day; I like Mr. 
Howard more than ever (he had only seen him twice before.) 
I am sure I shall get on with him, and he will teach me astro¬ 
nomy and navigation too, so I shall not be ashamed to go to sea 
next year; I shall learn so much first.” 

“ Let me walk home with you, dear Edward, and do tell me 
every thing you have done and are going to do,” asked Ellen, 
clinging to his arm, and looking in his face with such an expres¬ 
sion that there was little trace of ill-temper. Emmeline mean¬ 
while had made her brother a party in her indignation against 
Annie’s pride, which he termed insolence, vowing he would 
make her feel it. And as they came in sight of her and Caro¬ 
line, he called out to Ellen, who, all her timidity returning, 
tried to draw Edward into another walk. 

“ Not there, not there, Miss Nelly, you are not going to cut 
me in that fashion. You have talked quite enough to Edward 
and .must now come to me. Edward, there’s mamma ; off with 
you to tell your tale of delight to her.” And Edward did not 
wait a second bidding, leaving Ellen to Percy, who threw 
his arm affectionately round her, and began talking to her so 
amusingly that she could not help laughing, and so devoted did 
he appear to her, that he had only time to greet Miss Grahame, 
with a very marked and polite bow, and passed on. He wished 
to provoke, and he succeeded, for Annie was always particularly 
pleased when the handsome, spirited Percy Hamilton paid her 
any attention, and that he should be so devoted to his little 
pale, disagreeable-looking cousin, as not even to give her a 
word, annoyed her as much as he desired. 

Edward’s hasty progress to his aunt was slightly checked 
at seeing a stranger with her, but when he was introduced 
he made his bow with so much of his mother’s grace, that, 
combined with the extraordinary likeness, and her feelings 
already interested in Mrs. Hamilton’s account of her sister’s 
sufferings and death, Lady Helen could not for the moment 
speak except to exclaim, “ Oh, how that look recalls the past ! 
I could almost fancy poor Eleanor herself stood before me.” 

“ Did you — did you know my mother, madam ? ” said Ed¬ 
ward, with so much eagerness that his cheeks crimsoned and 
his voice trembled. “Were you one of mamma’s” — but he 
could not finish the sentence, and leaning his head against his 
aunt, he burst into tears. 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


85 


“ Poor child! ” said Lady Helen pityingly, as Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton pressed him closer to her, and stooped down to kiss his 
forehead without speaking; and that sudden and unexpected dis¬ 
play of feeling contrasted with Ellen’s painful shyness, stamped 
at once and indelibly Lady Helen’s opinion of the two orphans. 


CHAPTER IV. 

VARIETIES. 

A few days more brought Mrs. Greville and Mary to well- 
come their friends, and Ellen had again the pain of being 
introduced to strangers; but this time it was only the pain of 
her own shyness, for could she have overcome that feeling, she 
might have felt even pleasure. As it was, the gentle voice and 
manner with which Mrs. Greville addressed her, and the timid, 
yet expressive glance of Mary told of such sympathy and kind¬ 
ness, that she felt attracted toward both, and could quite enter 
into Emmeline’s enthusiastic admiration of her friend; not, 
however, believing it possible that she herself could ever be 
worthy to win Mary’s regard. Taught from such a very early 
age to believe herself so far inferior to Edward, such characters 
as Herbert and Mary appeared to her so exalted, that it was 
quite impossible they • could ever think of her; the constant 
little acts of unobtrusive kindness that her cousin showed her, 
she attributed to his extreme goodness, not from the most 
trifling merit in herself. She did indeed love him very dearly, 
the best next to her aunt; but so much of reverence mingled 
with it, that she was almost more reserved with him than with 
the others. But Herbert was naturally reserved himself in 
words, and so he did not think any thing about it, except to 
wish and endeavor to make his little cousin happier than she 
seemed. 

When contrasting Mary Greville with Annie Grahame, as 
she was rather fond of doing, Emmeline became so afraid she 
was disliking the latter more than she ought to do, that she 
never rested till she made an opportunity to confess all her 
feelings to her mother, and beg her to tell her if they were 
very wrong, and if she ought to like her. 

“ I am not so unconscionable as to expect you to like every 

8 



86 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


one with whom you associate, my dear little girl,” replied her 
mother, fondly, for there was something in Emmeline’s guile¬ 
less confidence irresistibly claiming love. “All we have to do 
when we find nothing that exactly sympathizes with our own 
feelings, or our own ideas of right and wrong, is to try and find 
out some reason for their being so different; some circum¬ 
stance that may have exposed them to greater temptations and 
trials, for you know I have often told you pleasure and amuse¬ 
ments, if too much indulged in, are a much greater trial to 
some than sorrow and pain. Now, Annie has had a great 
many more temptations of this kind than you or Mary, and we 
cannot expect one so very young entirely to resist them.” 

“ Do you mean, mamma, her going out so much in Lon¬ 
don ? ” 

“ Yes, love; she is very much noticed, and so perhaps thinks 
a little more of appearance and dress and pleasure than is quite 
necessary.” 

“ But Lady Helen need not take her out so much, if she did 
not like. Do you think she is quite right to do so ? ” asked 
Emmeline, very thoughtfully. 

“We must never pronounce judgment on other people’s 
actions, my little girl. I think it better not to interrupt your 
present quiet and I hope happy life, and therefore I do not 
take you or Caroline to London; but Mr. Grahame is obliged 
to be there for several months, and Lady Helen very naturally 
would not like to be separated either from him or her children. 
And then she has such a large family, and Annie so many 
young relations, that you see Lady Helen could not keep her 
children quite as free from temptation as I do mine, and we 
should be more sorry for Annie than blame her individually, 
however we may not like her faults. Do you understand me, 
my dear ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, mamma, and I am so glad I took courage to tell 
you all I felt. I am afraid I have encouraged many unkind 
thoughts about her, and I am quite sorry now, for I see she 
cannot help them as much as I thought she could. I do not 
think I could ever make her my friend, but I will try very 
much not to dislike and avoid her.” 

“ And that is all that is required of you, my love. When I 
tell you that our Father in Heaven commands us to love one 
another, and to avoid all unkindness in thought and deed, I do 
not mean that He desires us to love all alike, because He knew 
it would be neither for our happiness nor good that it should be 
so, but only to prevent the too great influence of prejudice and 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


87 


dislike. We might think such feelings can do no harm, be¬ 
cause only confined to our own minds, but they would be sure 
gradually to lead us to taking pleasure in listening to their dis¬ 
praise, and joining in it, and to seeing and talking only of their 
faults, forgetting that if we had been circumstanced exactly as 
they are, we might have been just the same; and this is the 
feeling David condemns in one of the Psalms we read this 
morning. Are you tired of listening to me, dearest, or shall 
we read it over again together ? ” 

Emmeline’s only answer was to run eagerly for her little 
Bible, and with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes listen to her 
mother, as she turned to the fifteenth Psalm, and reading it 
through, particularly pointed out the third verse, and so ex¬ 
plained it, as easily and happily to satisfy her child as to the 
Divine authority for all that she had said, and to stamp them 
still more forcibly on her memory. 

“ And now I do not mean to talk to you any more, my dar¬ 
ling,” she said, .kissing the little earnest face upturned to hers. 
“ You have heard quite enough to think about, and I am sure 
you will not forget it, so go and play; Ellen must be wondering 
what has become of you.” And again full of glee, the happy 
child bounded away, exclaiming, as she did so, “ Poor Annie, I 
am glad I am not exposed to such temptations, for I am sure 
I should not be able to resist them either.” 

But though any one who had seen her the next half hour 
might have fancied that a serious thought or sober task could 
not approach her, neither the conversation nor the Psalm was 
forgotten; with Herbert’s explanatory assistance, she not only 
found the Psalm, but committed it to memory ; and the second 
Sunday after her conversation with her mother, repeated it so 
correctly and prettily to her father, as to give her the delight 
of his caressing approbation. Learning correctly by rote was 
always her greatest trial, for her vivid fancy and very versatile 
powers occasioned her actual lessons to be considered such 
drudgery, as to require a great effort on her part to retain 
them. The sense, indeed, if she understood it, she learned 
quickly enough ; but she preferred her own language to any 
one’s else, and Mrs. Hamilton had some difficulty in making 
her understand that in time of study she required correctness , 
and not fancy; and that the attention which was necessary to 
conquer the words as well as the sense of the lesson, was much 
more important and valuable, however disagreeable it might 
seem, than the facility of changing the language to something 
prettier than the original. 


88 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


When, therefore, as in the present case, she voluntarily un¬ 
dertook, and conquered really a difficult task for a little lively 
girl, her parents had no scruple in giving the only reward she 
cared for — their approbation. It was in the bestowal of praise 
Mrs. Hamilton was compelled to be almost painfully guarded. 
She found that the least expression of unusual approbation 
caused Caroline to relax in her efforts, thinking she had done 
quite enough, and perniciously increasing her already too ex¬ 
alted ideas of herself. While to Emmeline it was the most 
powerful incentive to a continuance in improvement, and deter¬ 
mined conquest of her faults. There was constantly a dread 
on the mother’s heart, that Caroline would one day accuse her 
of partiality, from the different measure of her approbation 
which she was compelled to bestow; and yet painful as it was 
to persevere under such an impression, the future welfare of 
both was too precious to be risked for the gratification of the 
present. 

She was watching with delight Emmeline’s unrestrained en¬ 
joyment of her father’s caresses and lively conversation, in 
which Percy as usual joined—for Tiny, as he chose to call 
her, was his especial pet and plaything — when she was startled 
by a low and evidently suppressed sob near her; Ellen was 
bending over a book of Bible-stories which Herbert had lent 
her, and her long ringlets completely concealed her face; Miss 
Harcourt and Caroline both looked up surprised, but a rapid 
sign from Mrs. Hamilton prevented their making any remark. 
Herbert fixed his eyes pityingly on his little cousin, as if wish¬ 
ing but not liking to address her. Edward was the only one of 
the party who moved. He was busily engaged in examining a 
large Noah’s ark, and speculating as to its resemblance to a 
ship, and its powers of floating; but after a few minutes’ ap¬ 
parent thought he left it, and sitting down on Ellen’s chair, put 
his arm round her, and begged her to find a picture of Noah’s 
ark, and see if it were at all like the toy. Cheered by his af¬ 
fection, she conquered with a strong effort the choking in her 
throat, and turned to the page, and tried to sympathize in his 
wonder if it really were like the vessel in which Noah was 
saved, and where he could have put all the animals. Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton joined them, and without taking more notice of Ellen’s 
very pale cheeks and heavy eyes, than gently to put back the 
thick tresses that seemed to annoy her by their weight, gave 
them so much interesting information on the subject, and so 
delighted Edward with allowing him to drag down several 
books from the library to find out all they said about it, that 


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two hours slipped away quite unconsciously; and Ellen’s very 
painful feeling liad been so soothed, that she could smile, and 
join Emmeline in making all the animals walk in grand pro¬ 
cession to their temporary dwelling. 

But Mrs. Hamilton did not forget the child’s involuntary 
evidence of suffering, and vainly tried to imagine what at that 
moment could have caused it. Herbert seemed to think about 
it, too, for the next day she heard him ask Edward — 

“ If he knew why his sister always looked so sad ? — if he 
thought it was because she was not yet reconciled to Oak- 
wood ? ” 

“ It is not that,” was Edward’s reply: “ she has always 
looked and seemed sad, as long as I can remember her. One 
reason may be, she was always ill in India, and papa was often 
telling me how very much she suffered, and how patiently she 
bore it; and then, too, she knew I was poor mamma’s favorite, 
(his voice trembled,) and that used to make her very unhappy ; 
but I do not know why she is so very sad now, unless she is ill 
again, and that no one can tell, for she never will complain.” 

“Was your sister such a constant sufferer then?” inquired 
his aunt. “ Come here, and tell me all you can about her, 
Edward. I wish I could know more about both your lives in 
India.” 

Edward, with eager willingness, communicated all he knew, 
though, from his being so constantly with his mother, and Ellen 
so much left with her father and herself, that all was little 
enough ; adding, however, that after her very dangerous illness, 
when she was eight years old he perfectly well remembered 
hearing some celebrated physician say to his father she would 
probably feel the effects of it all her life-. 

“ It was a very long time before mamma permitted me to 
see her,” added Edward, “ and when I did, I remember being 
almost frightened, she was so altered, so pale, and thin, and 
weak ; and then she was very ill after poor papa’s death; but 
since then she has never complained, and never kept her bed ; 
but I know she is often in pain, for w r hen I have touched her 
forehead sometimes, it has burnt my hand like tire.” 

This childish explanation certainly told Mrs. Hamilton more 
than she had known before; but that Ellen had witnessed the 
fearful scene of her father’s death w r as still concealed. Ed¬ 
ward, as he grew older, though he did not know r why, seemed 
to shrink from the subject, particularly that he had been at a 
ball the same awful night. 

A few days afterward, as Mrs. Hamilton was crossing the 
8 * 


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large hall on her way to the school-room — for so, spite of Per- 
cy’s determination that it should receive the more learned and 
refined appellation of studio, it was still called — she overheard 
Caroline’s voice, exclaiming in angry impatience — 

“ Indeed, I shall not, I have enough to do with my own les¬ 
sons, without attending to other people’s. It is your idleness, 
Ellen, not the difficulty of your lesson; for I am sure it is easy 
enough.” 

“ For shame, Caroline! ” was Emmeline’s indignant reply. 
“ She is not idle, and I am sure her lesson is not so easy ; I 
wish I could explain it properly.” 

“ You know Miss Harcourt herself said she was careless or 
idle to-day, and she must know. I am not going to lose my 
hour of recreation to help those who won’t help themselves.” 

“ How can you be so ill-natured, so unkind ! ” began Emme¬ 
line ; but Ellen’s beseeching voice interrupted her — 

“ Do not quarrel with your sister on my account, dearest 
Emmeline ; I dare say I am very stupid, but my head does feel 
confused to-day ; pray do not mind me, dear Emmy; go with 
Caroline, aunt Emmeline will not like your remaining in.” 

Caroline had already quitted the room, and in her haste ran 
against her mother, who she instantly perceived had heard all 
she said. With a deep blush, she turned as to reenter the 
school-room, but Mrs. Hamilton stopped her — 

“ No,” she said, gravely, “ if you are only to act kindly for 
fear of my reproof, it will do no good either to yourself or 
Ellen. I could scarcely have believed it possible you should 
so have spoken, had I not heard it. Go and amuse yourself 
as you intended; I rather think had you given up a little of 
your time to help your cousin, you would have experienced 
more real pleasure than you will now feel all day.” 

“ Dear mamma, will you help Ellen ? ” asked Emmeline, very 
timidly, for though at Ellen’s reiterated entreaty she had left 
her, she felt it almost disrespect to run across the hall while her 
mother was speaking; and the thought suddenly crossed her 
that, as she was quite sure Ellen was not idle though Miss 
Harcourt thought she was, her mother, by assisting her, might 
save her from increased displeasure. 

“ Yes, dearest, if necessary; I have heard enough to satisfy 
me that you would if you could; and so I will, for your sake.” 
And Emmeline ran away, quite happy, to try all she could to 
soothe Caroline, whose self-reproach had as usual terminated in 
a fit of ill-temper and anger against Ellen, instead <\f against 
herself. 


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91 


Mrs. Hamilton entered the school-room, and stood by Ellen 
so quietly that the child did not perceive her. Her attention 
was completely absorbed in her book; but after a few minutes 
she suddenly pushed it from her, and exclaiming almost pas¬ 
sionately : 

“ I cannot learn it, try all I can! and Miss Harcourt will be 
so very, very angry ” — and she gave way, for the first time 
since her arrival at Oakwood, to a violent burst of tears. 

“ What is this very, very difficult lesson, my little Ellen! ” 
inquired her aunt, kindly taking one hand from her face. “Tell 
me, and we shall be able to learn it together, perhaps.” 

“ Oh, no, no! it is because I am so very stupid; Miss Har¬ 
court has explained it to me twice, and I know, I know, I ought 
to understand it — but — ” 

“Well, then, never mind it to-day. We can all learn much 
better some days than others, you know; and I dare say to¬ 
morrow you will be able to conquer it.” 

“ But Miss Harcourt is already displeased, and she will be 
still more so, if I leave it without her permission,” replied the 
sobbing girl, longing, but not daring, to throw her arms round 
her aunt’s neck, and lean her aching head against her bosom. 

“Not if I beg a reprieve,” replied her aunt, smiling; “but 
you must not let it make you so very unhappy, Ellen. I am 
afraid it is not only your lesson, but that you are ill, or unhappy 
about something else. Tell me, dearest, what can I do to make 
you more happy, more at home ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing, nothing! ” replied Ellen, struggling with her 
tears. “ Indeed I am happier than I ever thought I could be; 
I must be very ungrateful to make you think I am unhappy, 
when you are so good and so kind. My head ached to-day, 
and that always makes me feel a wish to cry; but indeed I am 
not unhappy, and never when you kiss me and call me your 
Ellen, whatever I may feel when you are not by; ” and, as if 
frightened at her own confession, she hid her face in her aunt’s 
dress. 

Mrs. Hamilton lifted her into her lap, and kissed her without 
speaking. 

“ You must learn to love me more and more then, my Ellen,” 
she said, after a pause, “and when you are feeling ill or in 
pain, you must not be afraid to tell me, or I shall think that you 
only fancy you love me.” 

“ Oh, no, it is not fancy; I never loved any one as I do you 
— except papa — my own darling, good papa!” the word was 
almost choked with sobs. “ He used to fondle me and praise 


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me, and call me his darling Ellen, as uncle Hamilton did Em¬ 
meline last Sunday; and when I was ill, so ill they said I 
should die, he never left me, except when his military duties 
called him away; and he used to nurse me, and try to amuse 
me, that I might forget pain and weakness. Oh, 1 shall never, 
never forget that dreadful night! ” and she closed her eyes and 
shuddered, as the horrid scene of blood and death flashed be¬ 
fore her. 

“ What dreadful night, my poor child ? ” inquired Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton, soothingly, after doubting whether or not it would be better 
for Ellen to pursue such an evidently painful theme, and no lon¬ 
ger requiring an explanation of her emotion the previous Sabbath. 

“ The night poor papa was killed; — oh, there were so many 
horrid forms on the grass, the natives and poor papa’s own 
men, and they looked so ghastly in the moonlight, and the grass 
was covered with blood and limbs and heads that had been shot 
off; and there were such cries and groans of pain — I see it, I 
hear it all again so often before I go to sleep, and when my 
head feels as it does to-day, and fancy I hear poor papa’s last 
words, and feel his kiss as he lay bleeding, bleeding slowly to 
death, and his voice was so strange, and his lips so cold!” 

“But how came you in such a dreadfhl scene, my poor El¬ 
len ? who could have permitted such a little child to be there ? ” 

“ Because I wished it so very much; I knew he would die 
before they could bring him to me, and I did so want to feel his 
kiss and hear his voice once more. Oh, aunt Emmeline! shall 
I never see him again? I know he cannot come to me; but 
shall I, oh, shall I ever be good enough to go to him ? ” And 
she looked up in her aunt’s face with such a countenance of be¬ 
seeching entreaty, that Mrs. Hamilton’s eyes filled with tears, 
and it was a full minute before she could speak; but when she 
did, Ellen felt more relieved and comforted, than on the subject 
of her father’s death she had ever felt before. From her mo¬ 
ther not being able to bear the subject even partially alluded 
to, and from having no one to whom she could speak of it, it had 
taken a still stronger hold of her imagination; and whenever 
she was unusually weak, and her head aching and confused, it 
became still more vivid. The very visible sympathy and in¬ 
terest of her aunt, and the gentle words in which she tried to 
turn the child’s thoughts from that scene of horror to the happi¬ 
ness of her father in Heaven, and an assurance that, if she tried 
to do her duty, and to love and serve God, and trust in His 
mercy to render her efforts acceptable, she would rejoin him, 
seemed to remove the masspf tangled thought within her young 


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93 


mind. Her head, indeed, still ached very painfully, and her 
eyes seemed as if they would close, notwithstanding all her ef¬ 
forts to keep them open; but when she awoke from a long 
quiet sleep, on the sofa in Mrs. Hamilton’s dressing-room, where 
her aunt had laid her, and found that kind friend still watching 
over her, the little heart and temples had ceased to throb so 
quickly, and she felt better and happier. 

Mr. Maitland, the medical friend of the family, confirmed the 
opinion which Edward had said their physician in India had 
given of his sister’s state of health. He did not, he said, con¬ 
sider her liable to serious illness, or of a constitution that would 
not endure; but that he feared it would be some years before 
she knew the blessing of really good health, and be constantly 
subject to that lassitude, severe headache, and the depression of 
the whole system thence proceeding, which must prevent the 
liveliness and quickness of acquirement natural to most child¬ 
ren. He thought the evil had been very greatly increased by 
want of sufficient care in early years, and the unwholesome cli¬ 
mate in which she had so long lived, that he wondered her mo¬ 
ther had not been advised to send her over to England, adding, 
with a smile, he was quite sure Mrs. Hamilton would not have 
refused the charge, anxious, as it might have been. And ear¬ 
nestly, not only on account of the child’s physical but mental 
health, did Mrs. Hamilton wish that such had been the case, 
and that she had had the care of her niece from earliest in¬ 
fancy ; and how much more would she have wished this, had 
she known that Mrs. Fortescue had really been advised to do 
with Ellen as Mr. Maitland had said; but that believing it 
merely an idle fancy, and persisting, too, in her own headstrong 
idea, that it was ill-temper, not illness, which rendered Ellen so 
disagreeable, she would not stoop so to conquer her unfortunate 
pride as to ask such a favor of her relatives, and to whom else 
could she appeal? Colonel Fortescue had none but distant 
cousins. She did satisfy a qualm of conscience by once sug¬ 
gesting to her husband — as her own idea, however, not as that 
of an experienced physician — that as he fancied Ellen was 
always ill, she might be better in England ; but, as she expect¬ 
ed, not only his intense love for his little girl rose up against 
the idea of separation, but his pride revolted from sending her 
to claim the pity of relatives who had so completely cast off her 
parents ; yet had he been told it was absolutely necessary for 
her health and so greatly for her happiness, he would not have 
hesitated to sacrifice every thought of self. But Eleanor, 
satisfied that she had done her duty, and delighted that in one 


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respect lie was quite as proud as she was, never again referred 
to the subject, and the physician who had thus advised, from 
his constant removals, he never chanced to meet. 

Great, indeed, was the amount of childish suffering which 
this selfish decision, on the part of her mother, occasioned Ellen. 
We do not mean the pain of constant languor itself, though that 
in its full amount our happy healthful young readers cannot 
have the least idea of: they, perhaps, think it almost a pleasant 
change, the care, and petting, and presents so often lavished on 
a brief decided illness ; but that is a very different thing to that 
kind of suffering which only so affects them as to be dull and 
heavy, they do not know why, and to make it such a very diffi¬ 
cult task to learn the lessons others find so easy; and such a 
pain sometimes to move, that they are thought slow and un¬ 
willing, and perhaps even idle, when they would gladly run, 
and help, and work as others ; and so weak sometimes, that 
tears start at the first harsh or unkind word, and they are thought 
cross, when they do not in the least feel so ; and this, not for a 
few weeks, but, with few exceptions, the trial of months and 
even years. 

And this was Ellen’s — which not even the tenderest and 
most unfailing care of her aunt could entirely guard her from. 
It is a most difficult thing for those who are strong and healthy 
themselves to understand and always bear with physical suffer¬ 
ing in others. Miss Harcourt, though in general free from any 
thing like prejudice, and ardently desirous to follow up her own 
and Mrs. Hamilton’s ideas of right and wrong, could not so 
govern her affections as to feel the same toward Ellen as she 
did toward Edward and the children she had lived with and 
taught so long. Her task with Ellen required more patience 
and forbearance and care than with either of the others, and 
sometimes she could not help believing and acting toward her 
as if it were wilful idleness and carelessness, not the languor 
of disease. 

With the recollection and evidence of Herbert, who had been 
delicate from his birth, and who was yet of such a remarkably 
gifted mind, and so bright in aspect, so sweet in temper, that 
illness seemed to have spiritualized instead of deadened every 
faculty, she could not understand, as Mrs. Hamilton did, the 
force of circumstances in producing from nearly the same cause 
two such different effects, nor how it was that complete neglect 
had engendered more evils than indiscreet indulgence; but that 
it appeared to have done so, was unhappily only too evident 
not only to Miss Harcourt. but to Mrs. Hamilton. It seemed 


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95 


almost surprising, and certainly a proof of a remarkably good 
disposition, that Edward appeared so free from great'faults, and 
of such a warm, generous, frank, and seemingly unselfish nature, 
so open to conviction and to all good impressions, that, except 
occasional fits of violent passion, there really was, as far as his 
aunt and uncle could perceive, nothing to complain of. They 
did not know that he stood in such awe of Mr. Hamilton, from 
his mother’s lessons of his exceeding sternness, that he exer¬ 
cised the greatest control over himself; and he was so exces¬ 
sively fond of Mr. Howard, and his days glided by in such va¬ 
ried and delightful employment, that there was no temptation 
to do wrong, except certain acts of trifling disobedience, of 
more consequence from the self-will they betrayed than the acts 
themselves, but which might have been sources of anxiety to 
his aunt, and lessened her confidence in him had she known 
them; but she did not, for Ellen not only constantly concealed, 
but she was the sufferer for him, and so brought reproof and 
suspicion on herself, which, could the truth have been known, 
might have been averted. But truth of act as well as word 
had never been impressed on Edward; and, therefore, though 
he was constitutionally too brave to utter a falsehood, too ho¬ 
norable to shield himself at the expense of another, if he 
knew that other suffered, he had been too long taught to believe 
that Ellen was his inferior, and must always give up to him, to 
imagine that he was ever acting deceitfully or unmanfully in 
permitting her to conceal his acts of disobedience. 

There was so much to love and admire in Edward, that 
neither Mr. nor Mrs. Hamilton imagined the real weakness of 
his character — that those lovable qualities all sprung from na¬ 
tural impulse, unsustained by any thing like principle. The 
quickness and apparent fervor with which he received the reli¬ 
gious impressions they and Mr. Howard sought so earnestly to 
instil, in the short time that was allowed them before he en¬ 
tered the navy, they augured so hopefully from, that not only 
his preceptor and uncle, but his ever-anxious aunt, looked for¬ 
ward to his career with scarcely a doubt as to its probity and 
honor. 

Ellen caused her infinitely more anxiety. There was a dis¬ 
regard to truth, a want of openness and candor, which, though 
Mrs. Hamilton believed the effects of neglect and extreme 
timidity, both her husband and Miss Harcourt feared were na¬ 
tural. Much, indeed, sprung from the poor child’s mistaken 
.idea of the nature and solemnity of the promise she had made 
her mother, and her constant watchfulness and determination 


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to shield Edward. For the disregard to truth, her mother 
had, indeed, alone been answerable. Ellen’s naturally very 
timid character required the inculcation of a high, firm principle, 
to enable her so to conquer herself as to speak the truth, even 
if she suffered from it. It was only, indeed, in extreme cases 
of fear — and never to her father that she had ever spoken 
falsely; but to Mrs. Hamilton’s high principles, which by ex¬ 
treme diligence and care she had so successfully imparted to 
her own children, even concealment was often an acted untruth, 
and of this fault and equivocation Ellen was but too often 
guilty, exciting Miss Harcourt’s and Caroline’s prejudices yet 
more against h^r. The latter, with all her faults, never swerved 
from the rigid truth, and had a strong contempt and dislike 
toward all those who did — except her friend Annie, who, as 
she always took care to speak the truth to her, she did not sus¬ 
pect of being less careful than herself. Emmeline, who had 
had some difficulty in restraining her love of exaggeration, and 
also in so conquering her own timidity and fear as always to 
speak the truth, only pitied Ellen, but did not love her the less. 

Of course, it was not till some months had passed that these 
lights and shadows of character in the orphans, and in the 
opinions they called forth in those around them, could be dis¬ 
covered*; but notwithstanding she stood almost alone in her 
opinion, notwithstanding there was very little outward evidence 
that she was correct, Mrs. Hamilton believed there was a great 
deal more in her niece than was discernible. She seemed to 
possess a strength, almost an intensity, of feeling and warmth 
of affection, which, if properly guided, would, effectually aid in 
removing the childish errors engendered by neglect; and it was 
this belief which not only enabled her to bear calmly the anx¬ 
iety and care, and often pain, which those faults and their 
compelled correction occasioned, but actually to love her niece, 
if possible, still more than Edward, and very nearly with the 
same amount of quiet but intense affection which she felt for 
her own children. 


CHAPTER V. 


A YOUNG- GENTLEMAN IN A PASSION.-A WALK.-A 

SCENE OF DISTRESS. 

One very fine morning in May, Mrs. Hamilton invited Ed¬ 
ward to join her in a walk, intending also to call at Moorlands 
and Greville Manor on their way. The lads were released for 
a few days from their attendance on Mr. Howard, that gentle¬ 
man having been summoned on some clerical business to Exeter. 
Percy was to accompany his father on an equestrian excursion ; 
Herbert had been commissioned by Emmeline some days be¬ 
fore to take some books to Mary Greville, and had looked for¬ 
ward himself to spending a morning with her. Edward, de¬ 
lighted at being selected as his aunt’s companion, prepared with 
haste and glee for his excursion. Robert was, however, un¬ 
fortunately not at hand to give him a clean pair of shoes (he 
had already spoiled two pair that morning by going into the 
stream which ran through the park to sail a newly-rigged fri¬ 
gate,) and angry at the delay, fearing that his aunt would not 
wait for him, he worked himself into such a violent passion, 
that when Robert did appear he gave vent to more abusive 
language than he had ever yet ventured to use, concluding by 
hurling both his discarded shoes at the domestic, who only 
escaped a severe blow by starting aside, and permitting them 
to go through the window. 

“ Robert, leave the room: I desire that you will not again 
give your assistance to Master Fortescue till he knows how 
to ask it,” was Mrs. Hamilton’s most unexpected interference, 
and Edward so startled at her voice and look, that his passion 
was suddenly calmed. 

“ Finish your toilet, and when you have found your shoes 
and put them away, you may join me in the breakfast-room, 
Edward. I only wait your pleasure.” 

And never did Edward leave her presence more gladly. 
Shame had suddenly conquered anger; and though his chest 
still heaved and his cheeks were still flushed, he did not utter 
another word till nearly a quarter of a mile on their walk. 
9 


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Twice he had looked up in his aunt’s face as if about, to speak, 
but the expression was so very grave, that he felt strangely 
afraid to proceed. At length he exclaimed — 

“ You are displeased with me, dear aunt; but indeed I could 
not help feeling angry.” 

“I am still more sorry than displeased, Edward; I had 
hoped you were learning more control, and to know your duty 
to a domestic better. Your uncle — ” 

“ Oh, pray do not tell him ! ” implored Edward, “ and I will 
ask Robert’s pardon the moment I go home.” 

“ I certainly shall not complain of you to him, Edward, if my 
arguments can convince you of your error; but if you are only 
to ask Robert’s pardon for fear of your uncle, I would rather 
you should not do so. Tell me the truth ; if you were quite 
sure your uncle would know nothing about it, would you still 
ask Robert’s pardon ? ” 

Edward unhesitatingly answered “ No! ” 

“ And why not ? ” 

“ Because I think he ought to ask mine for keeping me wait¬ 
ing as he did, and for being insolent first to me.” 

“ He did not keep you waiting above five minutes, and that 
was my fault, not his, as I was employing him; and as for inso¬ 
lence, can you tell me what he said ? ” Edward hesitated. 

“ I do not remember the exact words, but I know he called 
me impatient, and if I were, he had no right to tell me so.” 

“ Nor did he. I heard all that passed, and I could not help 
thinking how very far superior was Robert, a poor country 
youth, to the young gentleman who abused him.” 

The color rose to Edward’s temples, but he set his teeth and 
clenched his hand, to prevent any farther display of anger; and 
his aunt, after attentively observing him, continued — 

“ He said that his young master Percy never required im¬ 
possibilities, and though often impatient, never abused him. 
You heard the word, and feeling you had been so, believed he 
applied it to yourself.” 

“But in what can he be my superior?” asked Edward, in a 
low voice, as if still afraid his passion would regain ascendency. 

“I will answer your question by another, Edward. Suppose 
any one had used abusive terms toward you, and contemptu¬ 
ously desired you to get out of your sight, how would you have 
answered ? ” 

“ I would have struck him to the earth,” replied Edward, pas¬ 
sionately, and quite forgetting his wished for control. “Neither 
equal nor superior should dare speak so to me again.” 


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“And what prevented Robert acting in the same manner ?” 
Do you think he has no feeling? — that he is incapable of such 
emotions as pain or anger?” 

Edward stood for a minute quite still and silent. 

“I did not think any thing about it,” he said, at length; “but 
I certainly supposed I had a right to say what I pleased to one 
so far beneath me.” 

“And in what is Robert so far beneath you ? ” 

“ He is a servant, and I am a gentleman in birth, rank — ” 

“ Stop, Edward! did you make yourself a gentleman ? Is it 
any credit to you, individually, to be higher in the world, and 
receive a better education than Robert?” 

Edward was again silent, and his aunt continued to talk to 
him so kindly yet so earnestly, that at length he exclaimed — 

“ I feel I have indeed been wrong, dear aunt; but what can 
I do to prove to Robert I am really sorry for bavins; treated 
him so ill ? ” 

“Are you really sorry, Edward, or do you only say this for 
fear of your uncle’s displeasure ? ” 

“ Indeed, I had quite forgotten him,” replied Edward, ear¬ 
nestly ; “ I deserve his anger, and would willingly expose my¬ 
self to it, if it would redeem my fault.” 

“I would rather see you endeavor earnestly to restrain your 
passions my dear boy, than inflict any such pain upon you. It 
will be a great pleasure to me if you can really so conquer your¬ 
self as to apologize to Robert; and I think the pain of so doing 
will enable you more easily to remember all we have been say¬ 
ing, than if you weakly shrink from it. The life you have cho¬ 
sen makes me even more anxious that you should become less 
passionate — than were you to remain longer with me; I fear 
you will so often suffer seriously from it.” 

“I very often make resolutions never to be in a passion 
again,” returned Edward, sorrowfully; “but whenever any thing 
provokes me, something seems to come in my throat, and I am 
compelled to give way.” 

“ You will not be able to conquer your fault, ray dear Ed¬ 
ward, without great perseverance; but remember, the more 
difficult the task, the greater the reward; and that you can 
control anger I have, even during our walk, had a proof.” 

Edward looked up surprised. 

“ Did you not feel very angry when I said Robert was your 
superior ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Edward, blushing deeply. 

“And yet you successfully checked your rising passion, for 


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fear of offending me. I cannot be always near you; but, my 
dear boy, you must endeavor to remember that lesson I have 
tried to teach you so often—that you are never alone. You 
cannot even think an angry thought, much less speak an abu¬ 
sive word and commit the most trifling act of passion, without 
offending God. If you would but ask for His help, and recol¬ 
lect that to offend Him is far more terrible than to incur the 
displeasure of either your uncle or myself, I think you would 
find your task much easier, than if you attempted it, trusting in 
your own strength alone, and only for fear of man.” 

Edward did not make any reply, but his countenance express¬ 
ed such earnest thought and softened feeling, that Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton determined on not interrupting it by calling at Moorlands 
as she had intended, and so turned in the direction of Greville 
Manor. They walked on for some little time in silence, gradu¬ 
ally ascending one of those steep and narrow but green and 
flowery lanes peculiar to Devonshire; and on reaching the sum¬ 
mit of the hill, and pausing a moment by the little gate that 
opened on a rich meadow, through which their path lay, an ex¬ 
clamation of “ How beautiful! ” burst from Edward. 

Fields of alternate red and green sloped down to the river’s 
edge, the green bearing the glistening color peculiar to May, 
the red from the full rich soil betraying that the plough had but 
lately been there, and both contrasting beautifully with the 
limpid waters, whose deep azure seemed to mock the very 
heavens. The Dart from that point seemed no longer a mean¬ 
dering river: it was so encompassed by thick woods and fertile 
hills, that it resembled a lake, to which there was neither outlet 
nor inlet, save from the land. The trees all presented that ex¬ 
quisite variety of green peculiar to May, and so lofty was the 
slope on which they grew, that some seemed to touch the very 
sky, while others bent gracefully over the water, which their 
thick branches nearly touched. The hills themselves presented 
a complete mosaic of red and green; the fields divided by high 
hedges, from which the oak and elm and beech and ash would 
start up, of growth so superb as to have the semblance of a cul¬ 
tivated park, and not of natural woodland. 

Greville Manor, an Elizabethan building, stood on t^eir 
right, surrounded by its ancient woods, which, though lovely 
still, Mr. Greville’s excesses had already shorn of some of their 
finest timber. Some parts of the river were in complete shade 
from the overhanging branches, while beyond them would 
stretch the bright blue of heaven: in other parts, a stray sun¬ 
beam would dart through an opening in the thick branches, 



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and shine like a bright spot in the surrounding darkness ; and 
farther on, the cloudless sun so flung down his full refulgence, 
that the moving waters flashed and sparkled like burning 
gems. 

“ Is it not beautiful, dear aunt ? Sometimes I feel as if I 
were not half so passionate in the open air as in the house; 
can you tell me why ? ” 

“Not exactly, Edward,” she replied, smiling; “but I am 
very pleased to hear you say so, and to find that you can ad¬ 
mire such a lovely scene as this. To my feelings, the presence 
of a loving God is so impressed upon his works — we can so 
distinctly trace goodness, and love, and power, in the gift of 
such a beautiful world, that I feel still more how wrong it is to 
indulge in vexation, or care, or anxiety, when in the midst of a 
beautiful country, than when at home; and perhaps it is some¬ 
thing of the same feeling working in you, though you do not 
know how to define it.” 

“ But you can never do or feel any thing wrong, dear aunt,” 
said Edward, looking with surprised inquiry in her face. 

“ Indeed, my dear boy, I know that I very often have wrong 
thoughts and feelings; and that only my Father in Heaven’s 
infinite mercy enables me to overcome them. It would be 
very sad, if I were as faulty, and as easily led into error,- as 
you and your cousins may be, when I have had so many more 
years to think and try to improve in;’but just in the same 
way as you have duties to perform and feelings to overcome, 
so have I; and if I fail in the endeavor to lead you all in 
the better and happier path — or feel too much anxiety, or 
shrink from giving myself pain, when compelled to correct a 
fault in either of you, I am just as likely to incur the dis¬ 
pleasure of our Father in Heaven, as you are when you are 
passionate or angry; and perhaps still more so, for the more 
capable we are of knowing and doing our duty, the more wrong 
we are when we fail in it, even in thought.” 

There was so much in this reply to surprise Edward, it 
seemed so to fill his mind with new ideas, that he continued 
his walk in absolute silence. That his aunt could ever fail, as 
she seemed to say she had and did, and even still at times 
found it difficult to do right, was very strange; but yet some¬ 
how it seemed to comfort him, and to inspire him with a sort 
of courage to emulate her, and conquer his difficulties. He 
had fancied that she could not possibly understand how difficult 
it was for him always to be good; but when he found that she 
could do so even from her own experience, her words appeared 
9 * 


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endowed with double force, and he loved her, and looked up to 
her more than ever. 

Ten minutes more brought them to the Gothic lodge of the 
Manor, and instead of seeking the front entrance, Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton led the way to the flower-garden, on which Mrs. Greville’s 
usual morning-room opened by a glass door. 

“ Herbert was to tell Mary of our intended visit; I wonder 
she is not watching for me as usual,” observed Mrs. Hamilton, 
somewhat anxiously; and her anxiety increased, as on nearing 
the half open door she saw poor Mary, her head leaning 
against Herbert, deluged in tears. Mrs. Greville was not 
there, though the books, work, and maps upon the table told 
of their morning’s employment having been the same as usual. 
Herbert was earnestly endeavoring to speak comfort, but evi¬ 
dently without success ; and Mary was in general so controlled, 
that her present grief betrayed some very much heavier trial 
than usual. 

“ Is your mother ill, my dear Mary ? What can have hap¬ 
pened to agitate you so painfully?” she inquired, as at the 
first sound of her voice the poor girl sprung toward her, and 
tried to say how very glad she was that she had come just 
then; but the words were inarticulate from sobs; and Mrs. 
Hamilton, desiring Edward to amuse himself in the garden, 
made her sit down by her, and told her not to attempt to check 
her tears, but to let them have free vent a few minutes, and 
then to try and tell her what had occurred. It was a very 
sad tale for a child to tell, and as Mrs. Hamilton’s previous 
knowledge enabled her to gather more from it than Mary’s 
broken narrative permitted, we will give it in our own words. 

Mr. Greville had been at home for a month, a quarter of 
which time the good humor which some unusually successful 
bets had excited, lasted; but no longer. His amusement then 
consisted, as usual, in trying every method to annoy and irritate 
his wife, and in endeavoring to make his son exactly like him¬ 
self. Young as the boy was — scarcely twelve — he took him 
to scenes of riot and feasting, which the society of some boon 
companions, unhappily near neighbors, permitted; and though 
Alfred’s cheek became pale, his eye haggard, and his temper 
uneven, his initiation was fraught with such a new species of 
excitement and pleasure, that it rejoiced and encouraged his 
father in the same measure as it agonized his mother, and, for 
her sake, poor Mary. 

That morning Alfred had declared his intention of visiting a 
large fair, which, with some races of but ill repute, from the 


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bad company they collected, was to be held at a neighboring 
town, and told his father to prepare for a large demand on his 
cash, as he meant to try his hand at all the varieties of gaming 
which the scene presented. Mr. Greville laughed heartily at 
what he called the boy’s right spirit, and promised him all he 
required; but there was a quivering on her mother’s lip, a 
deadly paleness on her cheek, that spoke volumes of suffering 
to the heart of the observant Mary, who sat trembling beside 
her. Still Mrs. Greville did not speak till her husband left the 
room ; but then, as Alfred was about to follow him, she caught 
hold of his hand, and implored him, with such a tone and look 
of agony, only to listen to her, for her sake to give up his 
intended pleasure ; that, almost frightened by an emotion which 
in his gentle mother he had scarcely ever seen, and suddenly 
remembering that he had lately been indeed most unkind and 
neglectful to her, he threw his arms round her neck, and pro¬ 
mised with tears that if it gave her so much pain, he would not 
go; and so sincere was his feeling at the moment that, had there 
been no tempter near, he would, in all probability, have kept 
his word. But the moment Mr. Greville heard from his son his 
change of intention and its cause, he so laughed at his ridicu¬ 
lous folly, so sneered at his want of spirit in preferring his 
mother’s whims to his father’s pleasures, that, as could not fail 
to be the case, every better feeling fled. This ought to have 
been enough ; but it was too good an opportunity to vent his 
ill-temper on his wife, to be neglected. He sought her, where 
she was superintending Mary’s lessons, and for nearly an hour 
poured upon her the most fearful abuse and cutting taunts, 
ending by declaring that all the good she had done by her 
saintly eloquence was to banish her son from her presence, 
whenever he left home, as in future Alfred should be his com¬ 
panion ; and that he should begin that very day. Mrs. Gre¬ 
ville neither moved nor spoke in reply ; and the expression of 
her countenance was so sternly calm, that poor Mary felt as if 
she dared not give way to the emotion with which her heart 
was bursting. 

Mr. Greville left the room, and they heard him peremptorily 
desire the housekeeper to put up some of Master Alfred’s 
clothes. In a perfectly composed voice Mrs. Greville desired 
Mary to proceed with the exercise she was writing, and emu¬ 
lating her firmness, she tried to obey. Fortunately her task 
was writing, for to have spoken or read aloud would, she felt, 
have been impossible. So full half an hour passed, and then 
hasty footsteps were heard in the hall, and the joyous voice of 
Alfred exclaiming — 


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“ Let me wish mamma and Mary good-by, papa.” 

“ I have not another moment to spare,” was the reply. “ You 
have kept me long enough, and must be quicker next time; 
come along, my boy.” 

The rapid tread of horses’ hoofs speedily followed the sullen 
clang with which the hall-door closed, and as rapidly faded 
away in the distance. With an irresistible impulse, Mary 
raised her eyes to her mother’s face; a bright red flush had 
risen to her temples, but her lips were perfectly colorless, and 
her hand tightly pressed her heart; but this only lasted a 
minute, for the next she had fallen quite senseless on the floor. 
Her poor child hung over her almost paralyzed with terror, and 
so long did the faint last, that she was conveyed to her own 
room, partially undressed, and laid on her bed before she at all 
recovered. A brief while she had clasped Mary to her bosom, 
as if in her was indeed her only earthly comfort, and then in a 
faint voice desired to be left quite alone. Mary had flung her¬ 
self on the neck of the sympathizing Herbert Hamilton (who 
had arrived just in the confusion attendant on Mrs. Greville’s 
unusual illness,) and wept there in all the uncontrolled violence 
of early sorrow. 

Mrs. Hamilton remained some time with her afflicted friend, 
for so truly could she sympathize with her, that her society 
brought with it the only solace Mrs. Greville was capable of 
realizing from human companionship. 

“ It is not for myself I murmur,” were the only words that 
in that painful interview might have even seemed like com¬ 
plaint ; “ but for my poor child. How is her fragile frame and 
gentle spirit to endure through trials such as these; oh, Em¬ 
meline, to lose both, and through their father! ” 

And difficult indeed did it seem to realize- the cause of such 
a terrible dispensation ; but happily for Mrs. Greville, she 
could still look up in love and trust, even when below all of com¬ 
fort as of joy seemed departed; and in a few days she was 
enabled to resume her usual avocations, and, by an assumption 
of cheerfulness and constant employment, to restore some de¬ 
gree of peace and happiness to her child. 

Neither Herbert nor Edward seemed inclined to converse on 
their walk home, and Mrs. Hamilton was so engrossed in 
thought for Mrs. Greville, that she did not feel disposed to 
speak either. Herbert was contrasting his father with Mary’s, 
and with such a vivid sense of his own happier lot, that he felt 
almost oppressed with the thought, he was not, he never could 
be, grateful enough; for, 'wliat had he done to be so much 


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105 


more blessed ? And when Mr. Hamilton, who, wondering at 
their long absence, had come out to meet them, put his arm 
affectionately round him, and asked him what could possibly 
make him look so pale and pensive, the boy’s excited feelings 
completely overpowered him. He buried his face on his 
father’s shoulder, and burst into tears ; and then leaving his 
mother to explain it, for he felt quite sure she could, without 
his telling her, darted away and never stopped till he found 
himself in the sanctuary of his own room ; and there he re¬ 
mained, trying to calm himself by earnest thought and almost 
unconscious prayer, till the dinner-bell summoned him to re¬ 
join his family, which he did, quiet and gentle, but cheerful, as 
usual. 

Edward did not forget the thoughts of the morning, but the 
struggles so to subdue his pride as to apologize to Robert, 
seemed very much more difficult when he was no longer hear¬ 
ing his aunt’s earnest words; but he did conquer himself, and 
the fond approving look, with which he was rewarded, gave 
him such a glowing feeling of pleasure as almost' to lessen the 
pain of his humiliation. 


CHAPTER VI. 

CECIL GRAHAME’s PHILOSOPHY. -AN ERROR AND ITS 

CONSEQUENCES.-A MYSTERY AND A CONFIDENCE. 

A few days after the events of the last chapter, Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton, accompanied by Percy, called at Moorlands. Cecil 
Grahame was playing in the garden, and Percy remained with 
him, his good-nature often making him a companion, though 
there was nearly six years’ difference in their age. 

u Are you going to T— on Thursday, Percy ? There will 
be such fine doings. Races and the county fair, and wild 
beasts and shows, and every thing delightful; of course, you 
will go ? ” 

“ I do not think it at all likely,” replied young Hamilton. 

u No! ” repeated Cecil, much astonished. “ Why, I was 
only saying the other day how much I should like to be as old 
as you are; it must be so delightful to be one’s own master.” 

“ I do not consider myself my own master yet, Cecil. Some- 



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times I wish I were; at others, I think I am much better as I 
am. And, as for this fair, Mr. Howard will be back to-mor¬ 
row, so there is no chance of my going.” 

“ Why is there no such -thing as the possibility of a holiday, 
Percy ? ” replied Cecil, with great glee ; “ or perhaps,” he 
added, laughing, “ your papa is like mine, and does not allow 
such freaks ; thinks it wrong to go to such places, acting against 
morality, and such out-of-the-way ideas.” 

“ Are these Mr. Grahame’s opinions ? ” inquired Percy, 
almost sternly. 

4< Why ye — yes — why do you look at me so, Percy ? I 
am sure I said no harm ; I only repeated what I have heard 
mamma say continually.” 

“ That is not the very least excuse for your disrespect to 
your father; and if he think thus, I wonder you should talk of 
going to the races; you cannot have his permission.” 

“ Oh, but mamma has promised if I am a good boy till then, 
and she can manage it, I shall go; for she cannot see any 
harm in it. And as for waiting for papa’s permission — if I 
did, I should never go anywhere. He is so unkind, that I am 
always afraid of speaking or even playing, when he is in the 
room.” 

“ You are a silly boy, Cecil,” replied young Hamilton; 
“ Believe me, you do not know your best friend. X should be 
very sorry to feel thus toward my father.” 

“ Oh! but yours and mine are very different sort of people. 
Your papa never punishes you, or refuses you his permission, 
when you wish particularly to do any thing, or go anywhere.” 

“ If papa thinks my wishes foolish, or liable to lead me into 
error, he does refuse me without scruple, Cecil. And though 
I am old enough now, I hope, so to conduct myself as to avoid 
actual punishment: when I was as young as you are, papa very 
frequently punished me, both for my violence and pride.” 

“ But then he was kind to you afterward. Now I should 
not so much mind papa’s severity when I am naughty, if he 
would only be kind, or take some notice of me when I am good. 
But has Mr. Hamilton told you not to go to the races ? ” 

“ Not exactly: he has merely said he thinks it a day most 
unprofitably wasted; and that the gambling and excesses, 
always the attendant of races, are not fit scenes for young per¬ 
sons. Were I to take my horse and go, he would not, perhaps, 
be actually displeased, as I am old enough now, he says, in 
some things, to judge for myself; but I should be acting against 
his principles, which, just flow, I am not inclined to do, for I 
am sure to suffer from it afterward.” 


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107 


“Well, all I can say, is, that when I am as old as you arc, 
Percy, I shall certainly consider myself under no one. I hope 
I shall be at Eton by that time, and then we shall see if Cecil 
Grahame has not some spirit in him. I would not be tied 
down to Oakwood, and to Mr. Howard’s humdrum lessons, as 
you are, Percy, for worlds.” 

“ Take care that Cecil Grahame’s spirit does not effervesce 
so much, as to make him, when at Eton, wish himself back at 
Moorlands,” replied Percy, laughing heartily at his young com¬ 
panion’s grotesque attempts at self-consequence, by placing his 
cap dandily on his head, flourishing his cane, and trying to 
make himself look taller. Cecil took his laugh, however, in 
good part, and they continued in amicable conversation till 
Mrs. Hamilton summoned Percy to attend her home. 

Our readers have, perhaps, discovered that Percy, this day 
was not quite as lively as usual. If they have not, his mother 
did; for, strange to say, he walked by her side silent and dis¬ 
pirited. His thoughtlessness very often led him into error and 
its disagreeable consequences ; and, fearing this had again been 
the case, she playfully inquired the cause of his most unusual 
abstraction. He colored, but evaded the question, and suc¬ 
cessfully roused himself to talk. His mother was not anxious, 
for she had such perfect confidence in him, that she knew if he 
had committed error, he would redeem it, and that his own 
good feelings and high principles would prevent its recurrence. 

It so happened, however, that young Hamilton, by a series 
of rather imprudent actions, had plunged himself, into such a 
very unusual and disagreeable position, as not very well to 
know how to extricate himself from it, without a full confes¬ 
sion to his father; which, daringly brave as in general he was, 
he felt almost as if he really had not the courage to make. 
One of Mr. Hamilton’s most imperative commands was, that 
his sons should never incur a debt, and, to prevent the tempta¬ 
tion, their monthly allowance was an ample one, and fully per¬ 
mitted any recreative indulgences they might desire. 

Now Percy was rather inclined to extravagance, from thought¬ 
lessness and a profuse generosity, which had often caused him 
such annoyance as to make him resolve again and again to fol¬ 
low his father’s advice, and keep some accounts of his expendi¬ 
ture, as a slight check on himself. The admiration for beauty 
in the fine arts, which his mother had so sedulously cultivated, 
had had only one bad effect; and that was that his passion for 
prints and paintings, and illustrated and richly-bound volumes, 
sometimes carried him beyond bounds, anU very often occasioned 


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regret, that he had not examined the letter-press of such works, 
as well as their engravings and bindings. He had given orders 
to Mr. Harris, a large fancy stationer, librarian, and 'publisher 
of T—, to procure for him a set of engravings, whose very 
interesting subjects and beautiful workmanship Mr. Grahame 
had so vividly described to him, that young Hamilton felt to 
do without them till his father or he himself should visit the 
metropolis, and so judge of their worth themselves, was quite 
impossible. The order was given without the least regard to 
price. They arrived at the end of the month, and the young 
gentleman, to his extreme astonishment, discovered that his 
month’s allowance had been so expended, as not to leave him 
a half-quarter of the necessary sum. What to do he did not 
very well know. Mr. Harris had had great difficulty in pro¬ 
curing the prints, and of course he was bound in honor to take 
them. If he waited till he could pay for them, he must sacri¬ 
fice the whole of one month’s allowance, and then how could 
he keep free from debt till the next? As for applying to his 
father, he shrank from it with actual pain. How could he ask 
his ever kind and indulgent parent to discharge a debt incurred 
by such a thoughtless act of unnecessary extravagance ? Mr. 
Harris made very light of it, declaring that, if Mr. Percy did 
not pay him for a twelvemonth, it was of no consequence ; he 
would trust him for any sum or any time he liked. But to 
make no attempt to liquidate his debt was as impossible as to 
speak to his father. So, after a violent struggle with his pride, 
which did not at all like the idea of betraying his inability to 
pay the whole, or of asking a favor of Mr. Harris, he agreed 
to pay his debt by instalments, and so in two or three months, 
at the very latest, discharge the whole. 

One week afterward he received his month’s allowance, and, 
riding over directly to the town, relieved his conscience of half 
its load. To have only half his usual sum, however, for monthly 
expenditure, caused him so many checks and annoyances as 
to make him hate the very sight of the prints whose possession 
he had so coveted; but he looked forward to the next month to 
be free at least of Mr. Harris — the idea of disobedience to his 
father in incurring a debt at all, causing him more annoyance 
than all the rest. 

Again the first day of the month came round, and putting 
the full sum required in his purse, he set off, but on his way 
encountered such a scene of distress, that every thought fled 
from his mind, except how to relieve it. He accompanied the 
miserable half-famished man to a hut in which lay a seemingly 


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dying woman with a new-born babe, and two or three small 
half-starved, half-naked children — listened to their story, which 
was really one of truth and misfortune, not of whining deceit, 
poured the whole contents of his purse into their laps, and rode 
off to T—, to find, not Mr. Harris but Mr. Maitland, and im¬ 
plore him to see what his skill would do for the poor woman. 
He encountered that gentleman at the outskirts of the town, 
told his story, and was so delighted at Mr. Maitland’s willing 
promise to go directly, and also to report the case to those who 
would relieve it, that he never thought of any thing else till he 
found himself directly opposite Mr. Harris’s shop, and his 
bounding heart sunk suddenly down, as impelled by a weight , 
of lead. The conviction flashed upon him that h§ had been 
giving away money which was actually not his own; and the 
deed which had been productive of so much internal happiness, 
now seemed to reproach and condemn him. He rode back 
without even seeking Mr. Harris, for what could he tell him as 
the reason of his non-payment? Certainly not his having 
given it away. 

The first of May, which was his birthday, he had been long 
engaged to spend with some young men and lads who were to 
have a grand game of cricket, a jovial dinner, an adjournment 
to some evening amusement, and, to conclude the day, a gay 
supper, with glees and songs. Mr. Hamilton had rather wished 
Percy to leave the party after dinner, and had told him so, 
merely, however, as a preference, not a cbmmand, but giving 
him permission to use his own discretion. Percy knew there 
would be several expenses attendant on the day, but still he 
had promised so long to be one of the party, which all had de¬ 
clared would be nothing without him, and liis own inclinations 
so urged him to join it, that it seemed to him utterly impossible 
to draw back, especially as he could give no excuse for doing 
so. How could he say that he could not afford it ? when he 
was, or ought to have been, nearly the richest of the party; 
and what would his father think ? 

He went. The day was thoroughly delightful, and so excit¬ 
ing, that though he had started from home with the intention 
of leaving them after dinner, he could not resist the pleadings 
of his companions and his own wishes, and remained. At sup¬ 
per alone excitement and revelry seemed to have gained the 
upper hand, and Percy, though steady in entirely abstaining 
from all excess, was not quite so guarded as usual. A clergy¬ 
man had lately appeared at T—, whose appearance, manners, 
and opinions had given more than usual food for gossip, and 


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much uncharitableness. His cloth indeed ought to have pro¬ 
tected him, but it rather increased the satire, sarcasm, and 
laughter which he excited. He was brought forward by the 
thoughtless youths of Percy’s party, quizzed unmercifully, 
made the object of some clever caricatures and satires, and 
though young Hamilton at first kept aloof, he could not resist 
the contagion. He dashed off about half-a-dozen verses of such 
remarkably witty and clever point, that they were received 
with roars of applause, and an unanimous request for distribu¬ 
tion ; but this he positively refused, and put them up, with one 
or two other poems of more innocent wit, in which he was fond 
of indulging, into his pocket. 

The day closed, and the next morning brought with it so 
many regrets, and such a confused recollection of the very 
unusual excitement of the previous evening, that he was glad 
to dismiss the subject from his mind, and threw his satire, as 
he believed, into the fire. In fact, he w^as so absorbed with 
the disagreeable conviction that he could only pay Mr. Harris 
a third of his remaining debt, trifling as in reality it was, that 
he thought of nothing else. Now Mr. Harris was the editor 
and publisher of rather a clever weekly paper, and Percy 
happened to be in his parlor waiting to speak to him, while he 
was paying a contributor. 

“ I wish my head were clever enough to get out of your 
debt in that comfortable way,” he said, half laughing, as the 
gentleman left them together. 

“ I wish all my customers were as desirous of paying their 
large debts as you are your small one,” was Mr. Harris’s 
reply. “ But I have heard something of your clever verses, 
Mr. Percy; if you will let me see some, I really may be able 
to oblige you, as you seem so very anxious to have nothing 
more to do with me — ” 

“ In the way of debt, not of purchases, Mr. Harris; and I 
assure you, I am not thinking so much about you, as of my 
own disobedience. I will send you my papers, only you must 
give me your word not to publish them with my name.” 

“They will not be worth so much,” replied Mr. Harris, 
smiling. 

“ Only let me feel they have helped to discharge my debt, 
or at least let me know how much more is wanted to do so, 
and I will worship the muses henceforth,” replied Percy, with 
almost his natural gayety, for he felt he wrote better verses 
than those Mr. Harris had been so liberally paying for; and 
the idea of feeling free agairf was so very delightful, that, after 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


Ill 


receiving Mr. Harris’s solemn promise not to betray his author¬ 
ship, he galloped home, more happy than he had been for 
some days. 

Mr. Harris had said he must have them that evening, and 
Robert was leaving for the town as his young master entered 
the house. He hastily put up his portfolio, and sent it off. 
His conscience was so perfectly free from keeping any thing 
that he afterward had cause to regret, that he did not think of 
looking them over, and great was his delight, when a few lines 
arrived from Mr. Harris, speaking in the highest terms of his 
talent, and saying, that the set of verses he had selected, even 
without the attraction of his name, would entirely liquidate his 
trifling debt. 

For the next few days Percy trod on air. He had resolved 
on waiting till the poem appeared, and then, as he really had 
discharged his debt, take courage and confess the whole to his 
father, for his idea of truth made him shrink from any farther 
concealment. He hoped and believed that his father would 
regard the pain and constant annoyance he had been enduring 
so long, as sufficient penalty for his disobedience, and after a 
time give him back the confidence, which he feared must at his 
first confession be withdrawn. 

What, then, was his grief, his vexation, almost his despair, 
when he recognized in the poem selected, the verses he thought 
and believed he had burned the morning after they were writ¬ 
ten ; and which in print, and read by his sober self, seemed 
such a heartless, glaring, cruel insult, not only on a fellow- 
creature, but a minister of God, that he felt almost over¬ 
whelmed. What could he do ? Mr. Harris was not to blame, 
for he had made no reservation as to the contents of his port¬ 
folio. His name, indeed, was not to them, and only having 
been read lightly once to his companions of that hateful sup¬ 
per — for so he now felt it — almost all of whom were not 
perfectly sober, there was a chance of their never being recog¬ 
nized as his, and as their subject did not live near any town 
where the paper was likely to circulate, might never meet his 
eye. But all this was poor comfort. The paper was very 
seldom seen at Oak wood, but its contents were often spoken 
of before his parents, and how could he endure a reference to 
those verses, how bear this accumulation of concealment, and, 
as he felt, deceit, and all sprung from the one thoughtless act 
of ordering an expensive and unnecessary indulgence, without 
sufficient consideration how it was to be paid. To tell his 
father, avow himself the author of such a satire, and on such a 


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subject, he could not. Could he tell his mother, and implore 
her intercession ? that seemed like a want of confidence in his 
father — no — if he ever could gain courage to confess it, it 
should be to Mr. Hamilton alone; but the more he thought, 
the more, for the first time, his courage failed. It was only 
the day before his visit to Lady Helen’s that he had discovered 
this accumulation of misfortune, and therefore it was not much 
wonder he was so dispirited. Two days afterward Herbert, 
with a blushing cheek and very timid voice, asked his father to 
grant him a great favor. He was almost afraid to ask it, he 
said, but he hoped and believed his parent would trust his 
assurance that it was for nothing improper. It was that he 
might be from home next day unattended for several hours. 
He should go on horseback, but he was so accustomed to 
ride, and his horse was so steady, he hoped he might be allowed 
to go alone. Mr. Hamilton looked very much surprised, as 
did all present. That the quiet, studious Herbert should wish 
to give up his favorite pursuits, so soon, too, after Mr. How¬ 
ard’s return, and go on what appeared such a mysterious ex¬ 
cursion, was something so extraordinary, that various expres¬ 
sions of surprise broke from his sisters and Edward. Percy 
did look up, but made no observation. Mr. Hamilton only 
paused, however, to consult his wife’s face, and then replied — 

“ You certainly have mystified us, my dear boy; but I freely 
grant you my consent, and if I can read your mother’s face 
aright, hers is not far distant. You are now .nearly fifteen, and 
never once from your birth has your conduct given me an hour’s 
pain or uneasiness; I have therefore quite sufficient confidence 
in your integrity and steadiness to trust you, as you wish, alone. 
I will not even ask your intentions, for I am sure they will not 
lead you into wrong.” 

“ Thank you, again and again, my own dear father. I hope I 
shall never do any thing to forfeit your confidence,” replied 
Herbert, so eagerly that his cheeks flushed still deeper, and his 
eyes glistened; then throwing himself on the stool at his mo¬ 
ther’s feet, he said, pleadingly, “ Will you, too, trust me, dearest 
mother, and promise me not to be anxious, if I do not appear 
till after our dinner-hour ? — promise me this, or I shall have 
no pleasure in my expedition.” 

“ Most faithfully,” replied Mrs. Hamilton, fondly. “ I trust 
my Herbert almost as I would his father; I do a not say as much 
for this young man, nor for that,” she added, playfully laying 
her hand on Percy’s shoulder, and laughing at Edward, who 
was so excessively amused at the sage Herbert’s turning truant, 


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that he was giving vent to a variety of most grotesque antics of 
surprise. Percy sighed so heavily that his mother was startled. 

“I did not intend to calf such a very heavy sigh, my boy,” 
she said. “ In an emergency I would trust you quite as im¬ 
plicitly as Herbert; but you have often yourself wished you had 
his steadiness.” 

“ Indeed I do, mother; I wish I were more like him in every 
thing,” exclaimed Percy, far more despondingly than usual. 

“ You will be steady all in time, my boy, I have not the very 
slightest fear; and as I like variety, even in my sons, I would 
rather retain my Percy, with all his boyish errors, than have 
even another Herbert. So pray do not look so sad, or I shall 
fancy I have given you pain, when I only spoke in jest.” 

Percy threw his arm round her waist, and kissed her two or 
three times, without saying a word, and when he started up and 
said in his usual gay tone, that as he was not going to turn tru¬ 
ant the next day, he must go and finish some work, she saw 
tears in his eyes. That something was wrong, she felt certain, 
but still she trusted in his candor and integrity, and did not ex¬ 
press her fears even to her husband. 

The morrow came. Percy and Edward went to Mr. How¬ 
ard’s, and Herbert at half-past nine mounted his quiet horse, and 
after affectionately embracing his mother, and again promising 
care and steadiness, departed. He had risen at five this morn¬ 
ing, and studied till breakfast so earnestly that a double portion 
was prepared for the next day. He had said, as he was start¬ 
ing, that, if he might remain out so long, he should like to call 
at Greville Manor on his way back, take tea there, and return 
home in the cool of the evening. 

“Your next.request, my very modest son, will be, I suppose, 
to stay out all night,” replied Mrs. Hamilton; and that certainly 
will be refused. This is the last to which I shall consent — off 
with you, my boy, and enjoy yourself.” 

But Herbert did not expect to enjoy himself half as much as 
if he had gone to Mr. Howard’s as usual. He did not like to 
mention his real object, for it appeared as if the chances were 
so much against its attainment, and if it were fulfilled, to speak 
about it would be equally painful, from its having been an act 
of kindness. 

The day passed quietly, and a full hour before prayers, Her¬ 
bert was seen riding through the grounds, and when he entered 
the usual sitting-room, he looked so happy, so animated that, if 
his parents had felt any anxiety — which they had not — it 
would have vanished at once. But though they were contented 


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not to ask him any questions, the young party were not, and 
except by Percy, (who seemed intently engaged with a draw¬ 
ing,) he was attacked on all sides, and, to add to their mirth, 
Mr. Hamilton took the part of the curious, his wife that of 
her son. 

“ Ah, mamma may well take Herbert’s part,” exclaimed the 
little joyous Emmeline; “ for of course she knows all about it; 
Herbert would never keep it from her.” 

“ Indeed I do not! ” and “ Indeed I have not even told 
mamma! ” was the reply from both at the same moment, but 
the denial was useless ; and the prayer-bell rung, before any 
satisfaction for the curious could be obtained, except that from 
half-past six Herbert had been very quietly at Mrs. Greville’s. 

That night, as Percy sat in gloomy meditation in his own 
room, before he retired to bed, he felt a hand laid gently on his 
shoulder, and looking up, beheld his brother — 

“ Have you lost all interest in me, Percy ? ” asked Herbert, 
with almost melancholy reproach. “If you had expressed one 
word of inquiry as to my proceedings, I should have told you 
all without the slightest reserve. You have never before been 
so little concerned for me, and indeed I do not like it.” 

“ I could not ask your confidence, my dear Herbert, when 
for the last three months I have been wanting in openness to 
you. Indeed, annoyed as I am with my own folly, I was as 
deeply interested as all the rest in your expedition, though I 
guessed its object could be nothing but kindness ; but how 
could I ask your secret when I was so reserved with you.” 

“ Then do not let us have secrets from each other any longer, 
dearest Percy,” pleaded Herbert, twining his arm round his 
neck, and looking with affectionate confidence in his fac*e. “ I 
do not at all see why my secret must comprise more worth and 
kindness than yours. You talk of folly, and I have fancied 
for some days that you are not quite happy; but you often 
blame yourself so much more than you deserve, that you do not 
frighten me in the least. You said, last night, you wished you 
were more like me; but, indeed, if you were, I should be very 
sorry. What would become of me without your mirth and 
liveliness, and your strength and ever-working care to protect 
me from any thing like pain, either mentally or bodily ? I 
should not like my own self for my brother at all.” 

“ Nor I myself for mine,” replied Percy, so strangely cheer¬ 
ed, that he almost laughed at Herbert’s very novel idea, and 
after listening with earnest interest to his story, took courage 
and told his own. Herbert in this instance, however, could 


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not comfort him as successfully as usual. The satire was the 
terrible thing; every thing else but that, even the disobedience 
of the debt, he thought might be easily remedied by an open 
confession to his father; but that unfortunate oversight in not 
looking over his papers before he sent them to Mr. Harris, the 
seeming utter impossibility to stop their circulation, was to both 
these single-hearted, high-principled lads something almost 
overwhelming. It did not in the least signify to either that 
Percy might never be .known as their author. Herbert could 
not tell him what to do, except that, if he could but get suffi¬ 
cient courage to tell their father, even if he could not help 
them he was sure it would be a great weight off his mind, and 
then he gently reproached him for not coming to him to help 
him discharge his debt; it was surely much better to owe a 
trifle to his brother than to Mr. Harris. 

“ And, to gratify my extravagance, deprive you of some 
much purer and better pleasure ! ” replied Percy, indignantly. 
“ No, no, Bertie ; never expect me to do any such thing ; I 
would rather suffer the penalty of my own faults fifty times 
over! I wish to heaven I were a child again,” he added with 
almost comic ruefulness, “ and had mamma to come to me every 
night, as she used to do, before I went to sleep. It was so 
easy then to tell her all I had done wrong in the course of the 
day, and then one error never grew into so many; but now — 
it must be out before Sunday, I suppose — I never can talk to 
my father as I do on that day, unless it is ; — but go to bed, 
dear Herbert; I shall have your pale cheeks upon my con¬ 
science to-morrow, too! ” 


CHAPTER VII. 

MR. MORION’S STORY.-A CONFESSION.-A YOUNG PLEAD¬ 
ER.- GENEROSITY NOT ALWAYS JUSTICE. 

“Do you remember, Emmeline, a Mr. Morton, who offi¬ 
ciated for Mr. Howard at Aveling, five or six weeks ago ? ” 
asked Mr. Hamilton of liis wife, on the Saturday morning after 
Herbert’s mysterious excursion. The family had not yet left 
the breakfast-table. 

“ Perfectly well,” was the reply; “ poor young man ! his ap- 



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pearance and painful weakness of voice called for commisera¬ 
tion too deeply not to be remembered.” 

“ Is he not defojmed ? ” inquired Miss Harcourt; “ there was 
something particularly painful about his manner as he stood in 
the pulpit.” 

“ He is slightly deformed now; but not five years ago he had 
a graceful, almost elegant figure, though always apparently too 
delicate for the fatiguing mental duties in which he indulged. 
He was of good family, but his parents were suddenly much 
reduced, and compelled to undergo many privations to enable 
him to go to Oxford. There he allowed himself neither relaxa¬ 
tion nor pleasure of the most trifling and most harmless kind; 
his only wish seemed to be to repay his parents in some degree 
the heavy debt of gratitude which he felt he owed them. His 
persevering study, great talent, and remarkable conduct, won 
him some valuable friends, one of whom, as soon as he was or¬ 
dained, presented him with a rich living in the North. For 
nine months he enjoyed the most unalloyed happiness. His 
pretty vicarage presented a happy, comfortable home for his 
parents, and the comforts they now enjoyed, earned by the 
worth of their son, amply repaid them for former privations. 
One cold snowy night he was summoned to a poor parishioner, 
living about ten miles distant. The road was rugged, and in 
some parts dangerous; but he was not a man to shrink from his 
duty for such reasons. He was detained eight hours, during 
which time the snow had fallen incessantly, and it was pitchy 
dark. Still believing he knew his road, he proceeded, and the 
next morning was found lying apparently dead at the foot of a 
precipice, and almost crushed under the mangled and distorted 
carcass of his horse.” 

An exclamation of horror burst from all the little group, ex¬ 
cept from Percy and Herbert; the face of the former was cov¬ 
ered with his hands, and his brother seemed so watching and 
feeling for him, as to be unable to join the general sympathy. 
All, however, were so engrossed with Mr. Hamilton’s tale, that 
neither was observed. 

“ He was so severely injured, that for months his very life 
was despaired of. Symptoms of decline followed, and the ina¬ 
bility to resume his ministerial duties for years, if ever again, 
compelled him to resign his rich and beautiful living in York¬ 
shire ; and he felt himself once more a burden on his parents, 
with scarcely any hope of supporting them again. Nor was 
this all; his figure, once so slight and supple, had become so 
shrunk and maimed, that at first he seemed actually to loathe 


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the sight of his fellows. His voice, once so rich and almost 
thrilling, became wiry, and almost painfully monotonous ; and 
for some months the conflict for submission to this inscrutable 
and most awful trial was so terrible that he nearly sunk beneath 
it. This was, of course, still more physical than mental, and 
gradually subsided, as, after eighteen months’ residence in Ma¬ 
deira, where he was sent by a benevolent friend, some portion 
of health returned. The same benefactor established his father 
in some humble but most welcome business in London; and 
earnestly, on his return, did his parents persuade him to remain 
quietly with them, and not undertake the ministry again; but 
this he could not do, and gratefully accepted a poor and most 
miserable parish on the moor, not eight miles from here.” 

“ But when did you become acquainted with him, papa ? ” 
asked Caroline ; “ you have never mentioned him before.” 

“ No, my dear; I never saw him till the Sunday he officiated 
for Mr. Howard; but his appearance so deeply interested me, 
I did not rest till I had learned his whole history, which Mr. 
Howard had already discovered. He has been nearly a year 
in Devonshire, but so kept aloof from all but his own poor pa¬ 
rishioners, dreading the ridicule and sneers of the more worldly 
and wealthy, that it was mere accident which made Mr. How¬ 
ard acquainted with him. Our good minister’s friendship and 
earnest exhortations have so far overcome his too great sensi¬ 
tiveness, as sometimes to prevail on him to visit the Vicarage, 
and I trust in time equally to succeed in bringing him here.” 

“ But what is he so afraid of, dear papa ? ” innocently asked 
Emmeline. “ Surely nobody could be so cruel as to ridicule 
him because he is deformed ? ” 

“ Unfortunately, my dear child, there are too many who only 
enter church for the sake of the sermon and the preacher, and 
to criticize severely and uncharitably all that differs from their 
preconceived ideas; to such persons Mr. Morton must be an 
object of derision. And now I come to the real reason of my 
asking your mother if she remembered him.” 

“ Then you had a reason,” answered Mrs. Hamilton, smiling; 
“ your story has made me wonder whether you had or not.” 

“ I must tax your memory once more, Emmeline, before my 
cause is told. Do you recollect, for a fortnight after the Sun¬ 
day we heard him, he preached twice a week at Torrington, to 
oblige a very particular friend ? ” 

“ Yes, and that you feared the increased number of the con¬ 
gregation proceeded far more from curiosity than kindliness or 
devotion.” 


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“ I did say so, and my fears are confirmed: some affairs 
brought Morton to Torrington for two or three days this week, 
and yesterday I called on him, and had some hours’ interesting 
conversation. He was evidently even more than usually de¬ 
pressed and self-shrinking, if I may use the word, and at length 
touched, it seemed, by my sympathy, he drew my attention to 
a poem in Harris’s ‘Weekly Magazine.’” 

“ ‘ It is not enough that it has pleased my God to afflict me/ 
he said, ‘ but my fellow-creatures must unkindly make me the 
subjects of attacks such as these. There is indeed no name, but 
to none else but me will it apply.’ I could not reply, for I 
really felt too deeply for him. It was such a cruel, wanton 
insult, the very talent of the writer, for the verses, though few 
in number, were remarkably clever, adding to their gall.” 

“ I wonder Harris should have published them,” observed 
Miss Harcourt; “ his paper is not in general of a personal 
kind.” 

“ It is never sufficiently guarded ; and it would require a 
person of higher principles than I fear Harris has, to resist the 
temptation of inserting a satire likely to sell a double or treble 
number of his papers. I spoke to him at once, and bought up 
every one that remained; but though he expressed regret, it 
was not in a tone that at all satisfied me as to his feeling it, and 
of course, as the paper has been published since last Saturday 
evening, the circulation had nearly ceased. If I could but 
know the author, I think I could make him feel the excessive 
cruelty, if not the actual guilt, of his wanton deed.” 

“ But, dear papa, the person who wrote it might not have 
known his story,” interposed Caroline, to Edward’s and Ellen’s 
astonishment, that she had courage to speak at all; for their 
uncle’s unusual tone and look brought back almost more vividly 
than it had ever done before their mother’s lessons of his 
exceeding and terrible sternness. 

“ That does not excuse the ridicule, my dear child ; it only 
confirms the lesson I have so often tried to teach you all, that 
any thing tending by word or deed to hurt the feelings of a fel¬ 
low-creature, is absolutely wrong — wrong in the thing itself, 
not according to the greater or less amount of pain it may 
excite.” 

“ But, my dear husband, the writer may not have been so 
taught. Satire and ridicule are unhappily so popular, that 
these verses may have been penned without any thought of 
their evil tendency, merely as to the eclat they would bring 
their author. We must; not be too severe, for we do not 
know — ” 


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“ Mother! mother! do not — do not speak so, if you have 
ever loved me! ” at length exclaimed poor Percy, so choked 
with his emotion, that he could only throw himself by her side, 
bury his face in her lap, and sob for a few minutes like a child. 
But he recovered himself with a strong effort, before either of 
his family could conquer their anxiety and alarm, and, stand¬ 
ing erect, though pale as marble, without in the least degree 
attempting excuse or extenuation, acknowledged the poem as 
his, and poured out his whole story, with the sole exception of 
how he had disposed of the money, with which the second 
time of receiving his allowance he had intended to discharge 
his debt; and the manner in which he told that part of his tale, 
from the fear that it would seem like an excuse or a boast, was 
certainly more calculated to call for doubt than belief. Her¬ 
bert was about to speak, but an imploring glance from Percy 
checked him. 

Mr. Hamilton was silent several minutes after his son had 
concluded, before he could reply. Percy was so evidently dis¬ 
tressed — had suffered so much from the consequence of his 
own errors — felt so intensely the unintentional publication of 
his poem — for his father knew his truth far too well to doubt 
his tale, and there was something so intrinsically noble in his 
brave confession, that to condemn him severely he felt as if he 
could not. 

“ Of wilful cruelty toward Mr. Morton, your story has cer¬ 
tainly exculpated you,” he said, as sternly as he could ; “ but 
otherwise you must be yourself aware that it has given me 
both grief and pain, and the more so, because you evidently 
shrink from telling me in what manner you squandered away 
that money which would have been sufficient to have fully dis¬ 
charged your debt six weeks ago; I must therefore believe 
there is still some deed of folly unrevealed. I condemn you to 
no punishment — you are old enough now to know right from 
wrong, and your own feelings must condemn or applaud you. 
Had you been firm, as I had hoped you were, example would 
not so have worked upon you, as to tempt even the composi¬ 
tion of your satire ; as it is, you must reap the consequences of 
your weakness, in the painful consciousness that you have 
deeply wounded one, who it would seem had been already suffi¬ 
ciently affiicted, and that confidence must for the time be broken 
between us. Go, sir, the hour of your attendance on Mr. 
Howard is passed.” 

Mr. Hamilton rose with the last words, and somewhat hastily 
quitted the room. Percy only ventured one look at his mother, 


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she seemed so grieved — so sad — that he could not bear it; 
and darting out of the room, was seen in less than a minute 
traversing the grounds in the direction of the vicarage, at such 
a rate that Edward, fleet as in general he was, could not over¬ 
take him. Herbert lingered; he could not bear that any part 
of Percy’s story should remain concealed, and so told at once 
how his second allowance had been expended. 

Mrs. Hamilton’s eyes glistened. Percy’s incoherence on 
that one point had given her more anxiety than any thing else, 
and the relief the truth bestowed was inexpressible. Impru¬ 
dent it was ; but there was something so lovable in such a dis¬ 
position, that she could not resist going directly to her husband 
to impart it. 

“ You always bring me comfort, dearest! ” was his fond re¬ 
joinder ; “ anxious as that boy’s thoughtlessness must make 
me (for what are his temptations now to what they will be ?) 
still I must imbibe your fond belief, that with such an open, 
generous, truthful heart, he cannot go far wrong. But what 
are we to do about that unfortunate poem ? I cannot associate 
with Morton, knowing the truth and yet permit him to believe 
I am as ignorant of the author as himself.” 

“ Let me speak to Percy before we decide on any thing, my 
dear Arthur. Is Mr. Morton still at Torrington ? ” 

“ No ; he was to return to Heathmore this morning.” 

Mrs. Hamilton looked very thoughtful, but she did not make 
any rejoinder, 

In the hour of recreation Emmeline, declaring it was much 
too hot for the garden, sought her mother’s private sitting-room, 
with the intention of asking jvliere she could find her father. 
To her great delight, the question was arrested on her lips, for 
he was there. She seated herself on his knee, and remained 
there for some minutes without speaking — only looking up in 
his face with the most coaxing expression imaginable. 

“ Well, Emmeline, what great favor are you going to ask 
me ? ” said Mr. Hamilton, smiling ; “ some weighty boon, I am 
quite sure.” 

“ Indeed, papa, and how do you know that ? ” 

“ I can read it in your eyes.” 

“ My eyes are treacherous tell-tales then, and you shall not 
see them any more,” she replied, laughing, and shaking her 
head till her long bright ringlets completely hid her eyes and 
blushing cheeks. “ But have they told you the favor I am 
going to ask ? ” 

“ No,” replied her father, joining in her laugh ; “ they leave 
that to your tongue.” 


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“ I can read more, I think,” said Mrs. Hamilton; “ I am 
very much mistaken, if I do not know what Emmeline is going 
to ask.” 

“Only that—that — ” still she hesitated, as if afraid to 
continue, and her mother added — 

“ That papa will not be very angry with Percy ; Emmeline, 
is not that the boon you have no courage to ask ? ” 

A still deeper glow mounted to the child’s fair cheek, and 
throwing her arms round her father’s neck, she said, coaxingly 
and fondly — 

“ Mamma has guessed it, dear papa! you must, indeed, you 
must forgive him — poor fellow! he is so very sorry, and he 
has suffered so much already — and he did not throw away his 
money foolishly, as you thought; he gave it to some very poor 
people — and you are always pleased when we are charitable ; 
pray forget every thing else but that, and treat him as you 
always do, dear papa — will you not ? ” 

“ I wonder which is most certain — that mamma must be a 
witch, or Emmeline a most eloquent little pleader,” said Mr. 
Hamilton, caressingly stroking the ringlets she had disordered, 
“ and suppose, after to-day, I do grant your request — what 
then ? ” 

“ Oh, you will be such a dear, darling, good papa! ” ex¬ 
claimed Emmeline, almost suffocating him with kisses, and then 
starting from his knee, she danced about the room in a perfect 
ecstasy of delight; “ and Percy will be happy again, and we 
shall ail be so happy. Mamma, deaf mamma, I am sure you 
will be glad too.” 

“ And now, Emmeline, when you have danced yourself sober 
again, coine back to your seat, for as I have listened to and 
answered you, you must listen to and answer me.” 

In an instant she was on his knee again, quite quiet and 
attentive. 

“ In the first place, do you think Percy was justified making 
Mr. Morton an object of satire at all, even if it should never 
have left his own portfolio ? ” 

“ No, papa, and I am quite sure, if he had not been rather 
more excited — and — and heedless than usual — which was 
very likely he should be, you know, papa, after such a day of 
nothing but pleasure — he would never have done such a thing; 
I am sure he did not think of hurting Mr. Morton’s feelings; 
he only wanted to prove that he was quite as clever as his com¬ 
panions, and that was very natural, you know, when he is so 


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clever at such things. But my brother Percy willingly ridicule 
a clergyman! no, no, dear papa, pray do not believe it.” 

“Well defended, my little girl; but how do you justify his 
disobeying my commands, and incurring a debt ? ” 

Emmeline was silent. “ He was very wrong to do that, 
papa ; but I am sure, when he ordered the engravings, he did 
not intend to disobey you, and you know he is naturally very — 
I mean a little impatient.” 

“ Still on the defensive, Emmeline, even against your better 
judgment. Well, well, I must not make you condemn your 
brother; does he know what an eloquent pleader he has in his 
sister ? ” 

“ No, papa; and pray do not tell him.” 

“And why not?” 

“ Because he might think it was only for my sake you for¬ 
gave him, and not for his own; and I know I should not like 
that, if I were in his place.” 

“ He shall know nothing more than you desire, my dear little 
girl,” replied her father, drawing her closer to him, with almost 
involuntary tenderness. “ And now will you try and remember 
what I am going to say. You wish me only to think of Percy’s 
kind act in giving his money to the poor people; but I should 
have been better pleased in this case, had he been more just, 
and not so generous. I know it is not unfrequently said by 
young persons, when they think they are doing a charitable 
act, and can only do it by postponing the payment of their 
debts — ‘ Oh, Mr. So-and-so has plenty of business, he can af¬ 
ford to wait for his money, but these poor creatures are starv¬ 
ing.’ Now this is not generosity or charity, but actual injustice, 
and giving away money which is literally not their own. I do 
not believe Percy thought so, because I have no doubt he for¬ 
got Mr. Harris, at the time, entirely; but still, as it was a mere 
impulse of kindness, it does not please me quite so much as it 
does you.” 

“But it was charity, papa, was it not? You have said that 
whenever we are kind and good to the poor, God is pleased 
with us; and if Percy did not intend to wrong Mr. Harris, and 
only thought about relieving the poor family, was it not a good 
feeling ? ” 

“It was; but it might have been still worthier. Suppose 
Percy had encountered this case of distress when on his way 
to order his engravings, and to enable him to relieve it as he 
wished, he had given up the purchasing them. That he found 


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he could not afford the two, and so gave up the one mere indi¬ 
vidual gratification, to succor some unhappy fellow-creatures; 
would not that have been still worthier ? and by the conquest 
of his own inclinations rendered his charity still more accepta¬ 
ble to God ? Do you quite understand me, Emmy ? ” 

“ I think I do, dear papa; you mean that, though God is so 
good, He is pleased whenever we are charitable, He is still 
better pleased when to be so gives us a litttle pain.” 

“ Very well explained, my little girl; so you see in this in¬ 
stance, if Percy had been just before he was generous, and then 
to be generous, had denied himself some pleasure, his conduct 
would not have given us or himself any pain, but have been 
quite as worthy of all the praise you could bestow. And now 
I wonder how mamma could have discovered so exactly what 
favor you had to ask ? ” 

“ Oh, mamma always knows all my feelings and wishes, 
almost before I know them myself, though I never can find out 
how.” 

“ Shall I tell you, Emmeline ? Your mother has devoted 
hours, weeks, months, and years to studying the characters of 
all her children; so to know them, that she may not only be 
able to guide you in the path of good, but to share all your 
little joys and sorrows, to heighten the one and guard you from 
the other. Ought you not to be very grateful to your Father 
in Heaven for giving you such a mother ? ” 

His child made no answer in words, but she slipped from his 
knee, and darting to her mother, clasped her little arms tight 
round her neck, and hid her glowing cheeks and tearful eyes in 
her bosom. And from that hour, as she felt her mother’s 
fond return of that passionate embrace, her love became reli¬ 
gion, though she knew it not. Her thoughts flew to her cou¬ 
sins and many others, who had no mother, and to others whose 
mothers left them to nurses and governesses, and seemed always 
to keep them at a distance. And she felt, How could she 
thank and love God enough ? Nor was it the mere feeling of 
the moment, it became part of her being, for the right moment 
had been seized to impress it. 


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CHAPTER VIIL 

AN UNPLEASANT PROPOSAL. — THE MYSTERY SOLVED. — A 
FATHER’S GRIEF FROM A MOTHER’S ‘WEAKNESS.-A FA¬ 

THER’S JOY FROM A MOTHER’S INFLUENCE. 

Meanwhile the young heir of Oakwood had passed no very 
pleasant day. His thoughts since Mr. Howard’s return had 
been so preoccupied, that his studies had been unusually neg¬ 
lected ; so much so, as rather to excite the displeasure of his 
gentle and forbearing preceptor. The emotion of the morning 
had not tended to steady his ideas, and a severe reproof and 
long imposition was the consequence. Not one word did he 
deign to address Herbert and Edward, who, perceiving him 
leave the Vicarage with every mark of irritation, endeavored, 
during their walk home, to soothe him. His step was even 
more rapid than that in which he had left home, and he neither 
stopped nor spoke till he had reached his father’s library, which, 
fortunately for the indulgence of his ire in words, was untenant¬ 
ed. He dashed his cap from his brow, flung his books with 
violence on the ground, and burst forth — 

“Am I not a fool — an idiot, thus to torment myself, and for 
one act of folly, when hundreds of boys, at my age, are entirely 
their own masters ? do what they please — spend what they 
please — neither questioned nor reproved — and that poem — 
how many would glory in its authorship, and not care a whit 
whom it might wound. Why am I such a fool, as to reproach 
myself about it, and then be punished, like a school-boy, with 
an imposition to occupy me at home, because I did not choose 
to learn in the hours of study? — Not choose! I wish Mr. How¬ 
ard could feel as I have done to-day, nay, all this week; and I 
challenge him to bore his head with Greek and Latin! But 
why am I so cowed as to feel so ? Why cannot I have the same 
spirit as others — instead of being such a slave — such a — ” 

“ Percy! ” exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, who, having sought him 
the moment she heard the hall-door close, had heard nearly the 
whole of his violent speech, and was almost alarmed at the un¬ 
usual passion it evinced. Her voice of astonished expostulation 
checked his words, but 'not his agitation; he threw himself on 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


125 


a chair, leaning his arms upon the table, buried his face upon 
them, while his whole frame shook. His mother sat down by 
him, and laying her hand on his arm, said gently — 

“ What is it that has so irritated you, my dear Percy ? What 
has made you return home in such a very different mood to that 
in which you left it? Tell me, my boy.” 

Percy tried to keep silence, for he knew if he spoke he 
should, as he expressed it, be a child again, and his pride tried 
hard for victory. Even his father or Herbert at that moment 
would have chafed him into increased anger, but the almost 
passionate love and reverence which he felt for his mother tri¬ 
umphed over his wrath, and told him he was much more un¬ 
happy than angry; and that he longed for her to comfort him, 
as she always had done in his childish griefs; and so he put his 
arms round her, and laid his head on her shoulder and said, in 
a half-choked voice,— 

“I am very unhappy, mother; I feel as if I had been every 
thing that was bad, and cruel, and foolish, and so it was a relief 
to be in a passion; but I did not mean you to hear it, and cause 
you more grief than I have done already.” 

“ You have been very thoughtless, very foolish, and not quite 
so firm as we could have wished, my*own dear boy, but I will 
not have you accuse yourself of any graver faults,” replied Mrs. 
Hamilton, as she lightly pushed back the clustering hair from 
his heated forehead, and the gentle touch of her cool hand 
seemed as restorative as her soothing words; and Percy, as he 
listened to her, as she continued speaking to him in the same 
strain for some little time, felt more relieved than five minutes 
before he thought possible, and more than ever determined that 
he would never act so thoughtlessly; or, if he were tempted to 
do s v o, never keep it concealed so long again. Mrs. Hamilton’s 
anxious desire with him was, always to do justice to his better 
qualities, at the same time that she blamed and convinced him 
of his faults. It was a very delicate thing, and very difficult to 
succeed in, perhaps impossible to minds less peculiarly refined, 
and hearts less intensely anxious than Mrs. Hamilton’s; but no 
difficulty, no failure, had ever deterred her — and in Percy she 
was already rewarded. He was of that high, fine spirit, that 
any unjust harshness would have actually confirmed in error — 
any unguarded word bring argument on argument, and so, for 
the mere sake of opposition, cause him to abide in his opinions, 
when the acknowledgment of his being right in some things, 
produced the voluntary confession of his error in others. 

“And now about these unfortunate verses, my dear boy; I 


126 


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am not quite clear as to their fate, how it happened that you 
did not destroy them directly you returned home.” 

“ I fully intended, and believed I had done so, mother, but 
the whirl of that night seemed to extend to the morning, and I 
dressed and prepared for Mr. Howard in such a hurry (I had 
overslept myself, too) that though I had quite resolved they 
should not pollute my pocket-book any longer, I had no time to 
look over my papers — thought I could not be mistaken in their 
outside — burnt those I really wished to keep, and threw those 
which have caused me all this pain into my portfolio. If I had 
but been firm enough to have followed my father’s advice, and 
left my companions before supper! — or, if I did join them, had 
not been so weak, so mad, as to yield to the temptation, but 
adhered to my principles, notwithstanding they might have 
been laughed at, I might have been spared it all; but I was so 
excited, so heated, with a more than sufficient quantity of wine, 
that I did not know what I was about — not its extent of 
wrong, at least.” 

“ And you have suffered enough for an evening’s excitement, 
my poor boy; but I am sure you would atone for it, if you 
could.” 

“Atone for it, mother ! * I would give all I possess to cancel 
that odious poem, and blot it from Mr. Morton’s memory, as 
from my own.” 

“And I think you can do both, Percy.” 

He looked at her in utter bewilderment. 

“ Do both, mother! ” he repeated. 

“ Yes, my boy ! it is a painful remedy, but it would be an 
effectual one. Seek Mr. Morton, and tell him yourself your 
whole story.” 

Percy crimsoned to the very temples. 

“ Do not ask me such a thing, mother,” he answered very 
hurriedly ; “ I cannot do it.” 

“ You think so at this moment, my dear boy ; I am not at 
all astonished that you should, for it will be very humiliating, 
and very painful; and if I could spare you either the humilia¬ 
tion or the pain, yet produce the same good effects, I need not 
tell you how gladly I would; but no one can remove the sting 
of that poem from Mr. Morton’s sensitive feelings but yourself; 
and I am quite sure if you will allow yourself a little time for 
quiet thought, you will agree with me.” 

“ But why should I inflict such pain upon myself, granting I 
deserve it?” answered Percy, still much heated; “when, 
though my poem is the only one that has unfortunately met his 


HOME INFLUENCE. 127 

eye, the others were quite as galling and my companions quite 
as much to blame — why should I be the sufferer ? ” 

“ Because, by many errors, you have brought it on yourself. 
Your companions did indeed act very wrongly, but are we quite 
sure that the principles which your father and Mr. HoAvard 
have so carefully impressed upon you, have been as carefully 
impressed upon them ? and in such a case are not you the more 
responsible? They had evidently no inward check to keep 
them from such an amusement; you had, for you have ac- 
knoAvledged that you kept aloof at first, knowing it was wrong , 
and only yielded from want of sufficient firmness. Inflict the 
pain of an avowal upon yourself, my boy and its memory will 
help you in future from yielding to too great weakness — and 
the act prove to us that, though for a moment led into great 
error, you are still as brave and honest as we believe you.” 

Percy did not reply, but his countenance denoted an inward 
struggle, and his mother added — 

“ Suppose, as is very likely, Mr. Morton becomes intimate 
here, how can you, with your open, truthful heart, associate 
with him, Avith any comfort or confidence even though perfectly 
satisfied that Ave Avould not betray you, and that he would never 
knoAv the truth ? You may fancy now that you could, but I 
know my Percy better ; but I must not talk to you any more, 
for the dressing-bell rang some minutes ago. Remember, my 
dear boy, that I lay no command on you to seek Mr. Morton; 
I have only told you that which J believe would restore you 
to happiness and atone for your faults, more effectually than 
any thing else ; but you are quite at liberty to act as you think 
proper.” 

She left the room as she spoke, but Percy remained for some 
few minutes longer in deep thought, and when he prepared for 
dinner, and joined his family, it was still in the same unbroken 
silence. Mr. Hamilton took no notice of him, and two or three 
times the little affectionate Emmeline felt the tears rising to her 
eyes, for she could not bear to see that brother, who was in 
general the life of the family group, so silent and abstracted. 

Sliding after him, as he quitted the room after dinner, she 
took his hand, and looked coaxingly in his face, longing;, but not 
daring to tell him her father’s promise, for fear he should dis¬ 
cover her share in the transaction. 

“ Well, dear Emmy ? ” 

“Are you going to take a walk, Percy ? — let me go with 
you.” 

“ I do not think I am, love. I may be going to ride.” 


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“ To ride!” repeated the little girl; “ will it be worth while ? ” 
“You forget, Emmy, it is summer now, I have full four 
hours before prayers ; but do not say any thing about my in¬ 
tentions, Emmeline, for I do not know them myself yet.” 

He kissed her forehead and left her, and a few minutes after¬ 
ward she was summoned to join her mother, Caroline, and El¬ 
len, in a walk. They sauntered through the grounds in the 
direction of the northern lodge, which opened on the road lead¬ 
ing to Dartmoor; when, not a quarter of an hour after they had 
left the house, they were overtaken by Percy, riding at what 
seemed almost a hand gallop, but he had time as he passed his 
mother to gracefully dotf his cap, and her fond heart throbbed, 
as she caught the expression of his flushed, but earnest face. 
He was out of sight in another moment, followed by Robert, 
who was the lads’ constant attendant. 

Before they had concluded their walk, they met Mrs. Greville 
and Mary, and returned with them to the house. Emmeline, 
who had not seen Mary for nearly a fortnight, was in an ecstasy 
jojLeyjoyment, and Ellen always felt it n, real pleasure quietly 
to walk by Mary’s side, and answer the many questions with 
'MnCh-she always contrived to interest her. On entering the 
house, Mr. Hamilton, Herbert, and Edward joined them, and 
Mrs. Hamilton was somewhat surprised at the even more than 
ordinary warmth with which her son was greeted by her friends, 
and at the flush which stained his cheek at Mrs. Greville’s first 
words — -» 

“ You were not too much fatigued last Thursday, I hope, my 
dear Herbert ? ” she inquired, and as she looked at him, her 
eyes glistened in tears. 

“ Oh, not in the least,” he replied instantly, and as if he would 
exceedingly like to change the subject; but Mrs. Greville, 
turning to Mrs. Hamilton, continued — 

“ Will you forgive me, Emmeline, if I confess that my visit 
this evening was more to inquire after your son, than even to 
see you. I was so anxious to know that he had suffered no 
inconvenience from his unusual, -and I am sure fatiguing, exer¬ 
tion.” 

“I suppose I must no be jealous, as you are so candid,” re¬ 
plied Mrs. Hamilton, smiling; “ but I feel very much inclined 
to be so, finding that you are more in my son’s confidence than 
I am myself. I know Herbert was from home on Thursday, 
but I was not aware of any particular exertion on his part.” 

“ Did you not know then where he went ? ” exclaimed Mary 
and her mother at the same moment; and the former con- 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


129 


tinued, with unusual eagerness, “ Did you not know that he 
went to the races, to try and hear something of Alfred ? and 
that by hunting about both the fair and the race-ground — 
scenes which I know he so much dislikes — he actually found 
him, and amused him so successfully, that he kept him with 
him all day. Papa was so engaged that he had no time to 
look after Alfred, who, from being left entirely to himself, 
might have sought the worst companions ; I cannot think what 
charm Herbert used, but Alfred was quite contented to be with 
him; they dined together, and — ” 

“He brought me what, next to my boy himself, was the 
greatest consolation I could have,” interposed Mrs. Greville, 
her voice so faltering, that tears almost escaped, — “a few lines 
which, he assures me, Alfred thought of writing himself, telling 
me, he could not bear to think he had left home without kissing 
me, and that, though he was so happy with his father, that he 
could not wish to return home, he still loved me and Mary 
very, very much, and would continue to love us, and come 
and see us, whenever he could. Oh, Emmeline, can you not 
imagine the relief of such a letter, of hearing of him at all? 
and it was all through the kindness, the goodness of your boy ! ” 

When Mrs. Greville and Mary had first begun to speak, 
Herbert tried to retreat; but Edward placing himself against 
the door, so that to open it was impossible, and Caroline and 
Emmeline, both at once catching hold of him, to keep him 
prisoner, egress was not to be thought of; so, in laughing de¬ 
spair, he broke from his sisters, flung himself on his usual seat, 
his mother’s stool, and almost hid himself in her dress. 

u It must have been a relief, indeed,” answered Mr. Hamil¬ 
ton ; “ and rejoiced am I that my quiet Herbert thought of such 
a plan. Look up, Master Shamefaced, and tell us the reason 
of your most extraordinary mystery on this occasion. Why 
did you so carefully conceal your intentions from your mother 
and myself ? ” 

“ Because, papa, I feared you might not approve of them; 
I hardly dared think about it myself, for it seemed as if I were 
doing actually wrong in disregarding your principles, for only 
the chance of effecting good. I know, if I had mentioned my 
wish to find Alfred, or hear something about him, you would 
not have refused my going; but then mamma must have known 
it, and she would have been anxious and uncomfortable, if I 
had not appeared the very moment I had named; would you 
not ? ” he continued, looking up in her face with that expression 
of affection, which very few, even comparative strangers, had 
power to resist. 


130 HOME INFLUENCE. 

“ I should indeed, my dear boy; I fear I should have con¬ 
demned your scheme as a very wild one, and really am glad 
you thought so much of my comfort, as not to tell me more 
than you did. So I must not even be jealous, Jessie, but rather 
propose a vote of thanks to you and Mary for solving the mys¬ 
tery. I do not think Herbert ever excited so much curiosity 
and speculation, in his life, before.” 

The entrance of Mr. Grahame changed the current of the 
conversation, greatly to Herbert’s relief, for he did not at all 
like being thus brought forward. Austere as Grahame was at 
home, he was always welcomed with pleasure by the young 
Hamiltons, who never could understand why Annie and Cecil 
should so fear him. That something unusual had annoyed him, 
Mr. Hamilton perceived at the first glance; but he took no 
notice, for Grahame seemed to find relief in talking gayly to 
the young people. 

“ And where is my friend Percy ? ” he inquired, as he joined 
the happy group at tea, and Percy was still absent. Mr. Ha¬ 
milton repeated the question in some surprise; but his wife re¬ 
plying that he had gone to ride, and might not be back yet, the 
subject dropped. 

After tea, Mrs. Greville and Mary, attended by Herbert and 
Edward, returned to the Manor; and the little girls went to 
finish some business for the next day, and amuse themselves as 
they liked. Grahame remained alone with his friends, who at 
length drew from him the cause of his solicitude. He had, that 
morning, discovered that, notwithstanding his positive com¬ 
mands, Cecil had gone to the prohibited places of amusement. 
His wife had prevaricated when he questioned her; at one 
moment almost denying her connivance at the boy’s disobedi¬ 
ence, at another unconsciously acknowledging it, by insisting 
that there was no harm in it; and if Grahame would persist in 
so interfering with his children’s amusements, he must expect 
to be disobeyed. If such were his home, where was he to 
look for truth, honor, and affection ? What would be his son’s 
after career, if such were the lessons of his childhood ? He 
had punished him severely, but there was little hope of its pro¬ 
ducing any good effect, when, his wife was yet more to blame 
than his child. It would only alienate the boy’s affections still 
more from him. Yet what could he do ? Could he let such 
disobedience and untruthfulness — for Cecil had denied his 
having been at the races — pass unnoticed? He had shut 
himself up in his library the remainder of the day; but at 
length, unable to bear his,own thoughts, had walked over to 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


131 


Oakwood, feeling sure, if peace were to be found, he should 
find it there. 

Their sympathy it was easy for Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton to 
give — for they felt it sincerely — but to advise was both deli¬ 
cate and difficult. To interfere in a household is not the part 
even of the most intimate friends. And when Lady Helen 
herself encouraged the boy in his disobedience, and showed him 
an example of equivocation, what could be said? Grahame 
could not bear the idea of a public school for a boy scarcely 
eleven, and whose home influence was so injurious, and Mr. 
Hamilton could not advise it. He tried, therefore, merely to 
raise the depressed spirits of his friend, bringing forward many 
instances, when even the best training failed; and others where 
the faults of childhood were subdued by circumstances, and 
became fair promising youth. Grahame shook his head de- 
spondingly. 

“ You can scarcely be a fit judge of my trial, Hamilton,” he 
said; “ you have known nothing but the blessing of hand-in- 
hand companionship, in the training of your children, as in 
every thing else. There must be unity between father and 
mother, or there is little hope of joy in their offspring for 
either ; were my wife only in some things like yours — but I 
see I must not speak so,” he added hurriedly, as he met a 
glance of reproach from Mrs. Hamilton, and he turned to ad¬ 
dress the two lads, who at that instant entered from their walk. 
The bell for prayers rung soon afterward, and Grahame rose 
to say good night. 

“ Nay, stay with us,” said Mr. Hamilton, earnestly. “ Why 
should the call for devotion be the signal for separation ? join 
us, Grahame. It is not the first time by very many that we 
have prayed together.” 

Grahame yielded without an instant’s hesitation. Still 
Percy had not returned, and his mother became dreadfully 
anxious. Her husband, at her request, waited a quarter of an 
hour, but reluctantly ; for he was more particular that every 
member of his household should assemble at the stated hour of 
prayer, than in any othor point relating to his establishment. 
Scarcely, however, had the first word been said, when Percy 
and Robert entered, and the former, with a very rapid, but 
noiseless step, traversed the large room, and kneeled in his ac¬ 
customed place. In vain did Mrs. Hamilton try to keep her 
thoughts fixed on the service. Had he really been to Mr. 
Morton, and if he had, how had he been received ? had his 
fine spirit been soothed or irritated ? and a thousand other 


132 


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nameless but natural fears thronged her heart. But one look 
on her son as he rose reassured her; his cheek was flushed 
with rapid riding, but his dark eye sparkled, and he looked 
more bright and joyous than he had done for weeks. He 
advanced without hesitation to Mr. Hamilton the moment the 
domestics had quitted the library and said, eagerly, but still 
respectfully — 

“ Will you, too, forgive me, my dear father ? Mr. Morton 
knows the whole truth, and has not only pardoned my cruel 
folly, but assured me, that I have more than atoned for the pain 
my hateful verses inflicted; that he will laugh at them him¬ 
self, and declare he knows their author as a most particular 
friend — which he hopes you will permit me to become — 
whenever he has the opportunity; for that such notice of them 
will be the surest way to consign them to oblivion. I have en¬ 
dured so much pain the last few weeks that I do not think I 
shall be so thoughtless and weak in a hurry again. Will you 
try me once more ? ” 

Astonished and touched, far more than he was ever in the 
habit of allowing himself to feel, much less to display, Mr. Ha¬ 
milton had some difficulty in replying; but his words were 
even more than satisfactory to his son’s eager heart, for he 
answered earnestly — 

“ Pray, do not give me any praise for my courage, papa ; I 
am quite sure, if it had not been for mamma’s suggestion, I 
never could have done it. It might have crossed my mind, but 
I fear pride would not have permitted me to listen to it; but 
when mamma put the case before me as she did, I could not 
prevent my conscience from feeling the truth of all she said, 
and if I had not followed her advice, I should have been more 
miserable still. Dearest mother,” he continued, as he turned 
with even more than his usual affection to receive her nightly 
embrace, “ you have made me so happy! how can I thank 
you ? ” 

If she made him happy, he certainly had returned the bless¬ 
ing, for Mrs. Hamilton had seldom felt more exquisite pleasure 
than she did at that moment; and her little Emmeline, though 
she could not quite understand all her mother’s feelings, felt, in 
her way, almost as glad. 

“ Well, Mrs. Hamilton, will not your son’s words confirm 
mine ? ” said Mr. Grahame trying to speak cheerfully, when 
the young party had retired, and he was again alone with his 
friends. “ Can he go far wrong with such a friend ? ” 

“ Indeed, he has done me more than justice, and himself not 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


133 




enough. When I left him, I had scarcely a hope that my very 
disagreeable advice would be followed ; besides, Mr. Grahame,” 
she added, more playfully, “ it was not from disagreeing with 
you on a mother’s influence that my look reproached you, you 
know well enough what it meant; and I still say, that even 
now, if you would but be less reserved and stern, would but 
see Helen’s many better qualities, as clearly as you do her 
faults, you might still win her to your will even with regard to 
your children.” 

“ Not now, Mrs. Hamilton, it is too late; but you have no 
idea how your look transported me back to years past,” he 
added evidently resolved to change the subject, “when I actu¬ 
ally almost feared to approach you. Do you remember, Ha¬ 
milton, when I told you, if Miss Manvers had a fault, she was 
too cold ? ” 

“ I shall not easily forget the incidents of that night,” replied 
Mr. Hamilton, with a fond glance towards his wife. “Poor 
Eleanor, when her conduct that evening fell under my lash, I 
little thought her orphan children would be living under my 
roof, and to me almost like my own.” 

“And one her very image,” observed Grahame. “Does 
either resemble her in mind or disposition ? ” 

“ Edward almost as much in mind as in personal beauty,” re¬ 
plied Mrs. Hamilton. “But not in all points of his disposition. 
Ellen does not resemble her poor mother in any thing.” 

“ Is she like her father ? ” 

“I did not know him sufficiently to judge, but I fancy not.— 
In fact, I hardly yet understand Ellen.” 

“Indeed!” answered Grahame, smiling; “is your penetrative 
genius here at fault ? ” 

“I fear it is,” she answered, in the same tone“Ellen is my 
youngest child — and that which has been my successful help 
five times, has become blunted at the sixth, and refuses to aid 
me further.” 

“ Grahame, do not heed her,” interposed her husband, laugh¬ 
ing; “she fancies there is something extraordinary about Ellen, 
which she cannot comprehend; and I feel certain that imagina¬ 
tion has been playing with my wife’s sober judgment, and that 
our little, niece is a very ordinary child, only rather more sad 
and quiet than is usual at her age, which may be easily ac¬ 
counted for by her early trials and constant ill-health. So I 
solve what my wife pronounces a mystery. She has so few 
fancies, however, that I do not quarrel with this, for it has all 
the charm of novelty.” 

12 


134 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


There were more than usual subjects of thougnt on the minds 
of all the young inmates of Oak wood, before they went to sleep 
that night. Percy’s, Herbert’s, and Emmeline’s were all pecu¬ 
liarly happy and peaceful. Caroline’s were not so agreeable. 
Praise lavished on others never gave her pleasure: the ques¬ 
tion would always come, Why did she not receive it too? It 
was very hard that she so seldom received it, and self-love was 
always ready to accuse her parents of some degree of partiality, 
rather than herself of unworthiness. But these thoughts only 
came when she was alone; the moment she heard her father’s 
voice, or met her mother’s smile, they fled from her till they 
were pertinaciously recalled. 

Ellen thought mostly of Herbert. She had been as curious 
as the rest to know where he had been, though she had not said 
so much about it. But that it was for some good, kind deed 
she had never doubted. 

“ No wonder Mary loves him so much,” she said internally; 
“but how can I ever hope he will love one so often naughty as 
I am. If Edward be so much superior, what must Herbert 
be ? How I wish I were his sister, and then he would love me, 
deserving or not.” 

That poor Ellen was often thought, as she expressed it, 
“ naughty ” was true; and it was this mingling of many appa¬ 
rent faults, especially disregard to her aunt’s commands, and 
but too often endeavor to conceal and equivocate, instead of an 
open confession, with a sorrow and repentance too deep and 
painful for her years, that so fairly bewildered Mrs. Hamilton, 
and really, as she had told Mr. Grahame, prevented her from 
understanding Ellen. If she could but have known of that un¬ 
fortunate promise, and the strong hold it had taken of the child’s 
vived imagination; that by dwelling on it she had actually 
made herself believe that, by always- shielding Edward from 
blame or punishment, she was obeying and making her mother 
love her from heaven, and so, still more deepening her father’s 
affection for her; and that this idea enabled her to bear the 
suffering of that most painful of all punishments, her aunt’s dis¬ 
pleasure, Mrs. Hamilton would have left no means untried to 
remove such a mistaken impression, and no doubt would have 
succeeded; but she had not the slightest conception of the real 
origin of her niece’s incomprehensible contradictions. She had 
believed and hoped the influences of her earlier life would dis¬ 
appear before the quiet, wholesome routine of the present, and 
often and often she found herself fearing that it could not be 
only maternal neglect, but actual disposition, at fault. When 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


135 


convinced of tlie great importance of truth, Ellen frequently, 
instead of attempting to conceal what Edward might have heed¬ 
lessly done, actually took it upon herself, not being able to de¬ 
fine that in such self-sacrifice she was also forfeiting truth; or, 
if she did believe so, it was also clear, that to tell the real truth 
to her aunt and betray Edward, was breaking her solemn pro¬ 
mise to her mother; and, either way, she was doing wrong. To 
describe or define the chaos in the poor child’s mind, from these 
contending feelings, would be almost as impossible to us as it 
was to herself. She only knew that she was often naughty 
when she most wished to be good; that her aunt must think she 
did not care for her displeasure; when it made her so very un¬ 
happy, that she was scarcely ever in disgrace without being ill. 
That she never could feel happy, for even when “good” there 
always seemed a weight hanging over her, and therefore she 
must be different to, and worse than anybody else. Little do 
mere superficial observers know the capabilities for joy or suf¬ 
fering in a young child’s heart, the exquisitely tender germ 
which is committed to us; the awful responsibility which lies in 
the hands of adults, for the joy or grief, good or evil, as the 
portion of a child! Happily for Ellen, Mrs. Hamilton’s love 
was as inexhaustible as her patience, or her niece might have 
been still more unhappy, for few would have so understood and 
practised the delicate and difficult task of constantly being call¬ 
ed upon to correct, and yet to love. 

Our young readers must not think Edward very cowardly 
and very dishonorable, always to let his sister bear the penalty 
of his faults. He had never been taught, and therefore could 
not understand, the imperative necessity, when guilty of heed¬ 
lessness or disobedience, boldly to step forward, whether others 
were injured or not, and avow it. He did not understand how 
not to say any thing about it, unless he was a&ked, could be a 
want of truth. 

It was also Mrs. Hamilton’s constant custom never to mention 
to the members of her family, who might have been absent at 
the time, any thing of fault or disgrace which had fallen under 
her own immediate jurisdiction, unless their nature absolutely 
demanded it; and the absence of the young offenders from the 
happy family circle, either at meals or hours of recreation, when 
such an unusual proceeding was necessary, in consequence, 
never excited any remark, but a very general feeling of regret. 
Edward, therefore, scarcely ever heard the actual cause of his 
sister’s disgrace, and sometimes did not even know she had 
incurred it. He did, indeed, when she was sometimes absent, 


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feel very uncomfortable; but bis immovable awe of his really 
indulgent uncle (an impression of his mother’s creating, quite as 
strong as Ellen’s idea of the sanctity of her promise) caused him 
to adopt every means of removing the uncomfortable conscious¬ 
ness that he was far more to blame than Ellen, but the right 
one, a fearless inquiry as to why she was punished, and an open 
avowal that it was he who had either led her into error, or was 
the real offender. His thoughts on Percy’s conduct were very 
different to those of his cousins. 

“No!” he exclaimed, almost aloud, in the energy of his feel¬ 
ings, “ no ! I would have suffered any thing, every thing, rather 
than have done this — seek Mr. Morton, humble myself by 
avowing the truth to him, and ask his pardon for a mere clever 
joke, that Percy ought to have been proud of, instead of regret¬ 
ting ! If I did not know him well, I should believe him a craven 
milk-and-water lad, without a particle of the right spirit within 
him. What could have possessed him ? — my uncle’s look 
must have frightened him out of his sober senses: to be sure 
it was very terrible; poor mamma was, indeed, right as to his 
unbending sternness ; but I think I could have dared even his 
anger, rather than beg Mr. Morton’s pardon, when there really 
was no necessity.” And sleep overtook him, with the firm con¬ 
viction resting on his mind, that though in some things Percy 
might be his equal, yet in manliness and spirit, he (Edward) 
was decidedly the superior. 


CHAPTER IX. 

TEMPTATION AND DISOBEDIENCE.-FEAR.-FALSEHOOD AND 

PUNISHMENT. 

It was the Christmas vacation — always a happy season in 
the halls of Oak wood. The previous year, the general juvenile 
party with which Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton indulged their child¬ 
ren on the first or sixth of January, as circumstances permitted, 
had not taken place on account of Mrs. Fortescue’s death, and 
was therefore this year anticipated with even more than usual 
joy. Caroline and Emmeline were never permitted to go to 
indiscriminate parties. Two or three, really confined to child¬ 
ren, their mother allowed their joining, with Miss Harcourt, 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


137 


in the course of the year, but their own ball was always con¬ 
sidered the acme of enjoyment, especially now that Caroline 
began to fancy herself very much too old for only children’s 
parties. Annie went almost everywhere with Lady Helen, 
and quite laughed at the idea of joining children; and Caroline 
this year began to wish most intensely that her mother would 
take her out to grown-up parties too, and lost all relish for the 
pleasant parties she had enjoyed. Mrs. Hamilton never 
obliged her to go out with Emmeline and Ellen, if she really 
did not wish it; but Caroline could not get any farther in con¬ 
sidering herself a woman. 

The week before Christmas, Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton did not 
allow to be all holiday and amusement. The season was to 
their feelings of religion, one of earnest, intense thankfulness, 
and they wished to make it equally so to their children — a 
source of joy and hope indeed, but the joy and hope of Heaven, 
not the mere amusements and pleasures of earth. They had 
thought long and tried earnestly to make their children so to love 
serious things, as never to associate them with gloom or sad¬ 
ness — never to fancy that to be truly and spiritually religious 
demanded a relinquishment of the joys and pleasures and inno¬ 
cent happiness of their age, and admirably had they succeeded. 
Christmas week was always anticipated with quiet gladness, 
for they were still more with their father and mother; and the 
few serious readings and lessons they had, were from and with 
them alone; Miss Harcourt’s time was then entirely her own. 
As soon as Christmas-day w r as passed, the young party, with 
the sole exception of two hours’ work by themselves, in the 
morning or some part of the day if the mornings were wanted 
— (for Mrs. Hamilton never permited all duty to be suspended, 
believing — and her children had experienced the wisdom of 
the belief — that pleasure and recreation were infinitely more 
enjoyable after the performance of some duty, however brief 
and easy, than had they nothing to do but to amuse themselves 
all day) — were allowed to be just as free, happy, and noisy as 
they pleased; and the exuberance of their innocent happiness 
would have been envied by many, who might have thought the 
quiet routine of their usual life irksome indeed. 

Edward Fortescue was looking forward with the greatest 
delight to becoming a midshipman in the course of the following 
year. He hoped, indeed, it would be in a very few months; 
but his uncle and Mr. Howard had only told him to work on 
as hard as he could, for the summons might come for him to 
join at a very short notice, and it would be very dreadful, if 


138 


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the commission should be refused because his guardians did not 
thiak him forward enough in his various studies to leave them. 
They had looked very mischievous when they had told him 
this, and Edward had enjoyed the joke, and resolved they 
should not have any such amusement. He would go to sea, if 
he worked night and day for the privilege ; and he really did 
so well, that his uncle gave him great praise, which was as un¬ 
expected and delightful as his anger was terrible. 

It happened that on the morning after Christmas-day, Ed¬ 
ward and Ellen were quite alone in the school-room ; the for¬ 
mer was in one of his most impatient moods, for at his own 
request, his uncle was to examine him in a favorite study, and 
one of the necessary books was wanting. He had read it a 
few evenings previous, but something had crossed him, and in a 
desperate passion he had flung the book from him, and where 
it fell he neither knew nor cared. Caroline and Emmeline 
had already gone on an expedition to some poor people, with 
their mother; Ellen had asked and received permission to put 
some seeds in her little garden, Percy having kindly promised 
to show her where, and to do some harder work in it for her. He 
was, however still engaged with his father, and would be, he 
had told her, for perhaps an hour longer, but he would be sure 
to come to her then; and, to employ the interval, she had in¬ 
tended to work hard at a purse she was making for him. 
Edward, however, entirely engrossed her, and for nearly half 
an hour they hunted in every nook and corner of the room, at 
length — 

“ I see it! I see it! Edward,” Ellen exclaimed, adding, 
however, in a very desponding tone, “ But what shall we do ? 
we cannot get it.” 

“ Why not ? ” answered Edward impatiently; where is it, 
Ellen?” 

“ Behind that stand of flowers,” she replied, pointing to one 
that filled a corner of the room and which, though it was win¬ 
ter, was filled with some beautiful flowering geraniums of all 
colors, and some few rare myrtles in full flower. 

“ There ! ” said Edward joyfully ; “ Oh, that is very easily 
moved — I shall get it in a minute.” 

“ But you know aunt Emmeline desired us not to touch it,” 
implored Ellen, clinging to his arm ; “ and the flowers are 
almost all Caroline’s. Dear Edward — pray do not move it.” 

“ Stuff and nonsense, Ellen! How is aunt to know any 
thing about it ? and what do I care about the flowers being 
Caroline’s; they may be whose they like, but they shall not 
prevent my getting my book.” 


139 




u But it will be disobeying aunt, Edward — pray, pray, 
don’t; you know how displeased she was with Emmeline last 
week for a much more trifling disobedience than this will be. 
And if any thing should happen to the flowers, Caroline will 
be so angry.” 

“ And what do I care for Caroline’s anger,” retorted Edward, 
impatiently; “ My uncle’s indeed is something to care about, 
and if I don’t get my book and go to him directly, I shall have 
it. I don’t like to disobey aunt, but in this case there is no help 
for it. I am sure I can reach it without doing any harm; 
besides, I must get my book — I cannot do without it.” 

“ Then only wait till aunt comes home, or at least let me ask 
uncle if we may move it, dear Edward ; do let me go — I will 
not be a minute.” 

“ And so betray my being in a passion the other day, and 
get me a reproof for that, and for my carelessness into the bar¬ 
gain ! Nonsense, Ellen ; I will get it, and you must help me, 
for I have not a moment to lose.” 

“ No, Edward! indeed, indeed, I cannot touch it,” she re¬ 
plied imploringly, and shrinking back. 

“ Say, rather, you wish to get me into disgrace, and perhaps 
prevented from going out this evening, and to-morrow, and 
Friday too ! ” exclaimed Edward, irritated beyond all forbear- 
ance; “ and the other day you were so very sorry I was^going 
from home so soon — much you must care about me^fehat you 
cannot do such a trifling thing as this to oblige nate ! I hate~ 


deceit.” 




Ellen made no reply, though the tears started to her eyes; 
but as usual her firmness deserted her. The heavy stand was . 
carefully moved a little forward, without injuring any of the 
plants; the book was obtained, and at that moment the voice 
of Percy was heard exclaiming — 

“ Edward! Edward! what are you about ? papa has been 
expecting you the last half-hour; he says if you do not come 
directly, you will not have time to do all you wish — what can 
you be about ? ” 

Edward did not wait to hear much more than his name, but 
darted off, leaving his sister to push back the stand. Ellen felt 
almost sure she could not do it by herself; but how was she to 
act ? To ask assistance would not only be confessing her own 
disobedience, but inculpating her brother, and really, perhaps, 
deprive him of the enjoyments he anticipated, and so confirm 
his unkind words. She tried to replace it, and thought she had 
quite succeeded; but as she moved it, one of the myrtles fell 


140 


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to the ground, and its beautiful blossom hung on the stalk, pre¬ 
served from being quite broken off only by three or four deli¬ 
cate fibres. It was Caroline’s favorite plant; one she so che¬ 
rished and tended, that Percy called it her petted child; and 
poor Ellen stood paralyzed; she raised the pot mechanically, 
and rested the broken head of the flower against the still unin¬ 
jured sprig, and it looked so well and natural, that the thought 
for a moment darted across her mind that after all it might not 
be discovered. Then came all her aunt’s lessons of the many 
ways of acting an untruth without words, and, therefore, even 
if it should not be discovered, it was no comfort; but could 
she, dared she, voluntarily confess what must appear a wilful 
disobedience ? If her aunt had been at home, she might in 
that first moment have gained the necessary courage ; but she 
was not expected back for two or three hours, and Ellen sat 
-\yith her face buried in her hands, only conscious of misery, till 
her cousin’s joyous voice called out from the hall — 

“ Come along, Nelly, I have kept you long enough; Tiny 
would never have left me quiet so long ; but there is no tiring 
your patience. However, I will make up for it now.” 

And glad to escape from her own thoughts, she hastily col¬ 
lected the various seeds, and ran after him. And Percy was 
so active, so obliging, so amusing in his queer ways of working 
and talking, that she almost forgot the impending trial, till she 
met her aunt and cousins at luncheon. Edward had been so 
intent, so happy at his business with his uncle, that he had never 
cast a 'thought as to how the stand got back; and after lunch 
he had to go for a row on the river, and after dinner to attend 
a lecture on astronomy, which, that night and the one following, 
was to be given in the Town-hall in T—. His uncle and Percy 
and Herbert were to accompany him, and so, that he should 
give a thought to any thing disagreeable, was not likely. 

The day wore on ; Ellen’s little courage had all gone, and 
she almost unconsciously hoped that nothing would be disco¬ 
vered. Mr. Hamilton and the lads departed at six, and Mrs. 
Hamilton proposed adjourning to her daughters’ room, to finish 
an entertaining book that they were reading aloud. She had 
noticed, with her usual penetration, that all day Ellen evidently 
shrunk from her eye, and felt quite sure something was wrong 
again ; but she asked no questions, fearing again to tempt 
equivocation. Caroline’s passionate exclamation that some¬ 
body had broken her beautiful flower, drew the attention of all 
to the stand, and one glance sufficed to tell Mrs. Hamilton that 
it had been moved. Her anxious suspicions at once connected 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


141 


this with Ellen’s shrinking manner, and she turned to ask her 
if she knew any thing about it. But Ellen had disappeared ; 
and she rang the bell, and inquired of the only domestics whose 
department ever led them into the room, if they could explain 
the accident. But neither of them could ; all uniting in declar¬ 
ing, that in the morning the myrtle was quite perfect. 

“Ellen was at home, mamma; she must know something 
about it. Percy said they did not begin gardening till more 
than an hour after we were gone,” exclaimed Caroline, whose 
temper was sorely tried by this downfall of all her cares. “ I 
dare say she did it herself — spiteful thing! — and has gone to 
hide herself rather than confess it — it is just like her! ” 

“ Stop, Caroline, do not condemn till you are quite certain; 
and do not in your anger say what is not true. Ellen has given 
no evidence as yet of being spiteful or mischievous. Emme¬ 
line, go and tell your cousin that I want her.” 

The child obeyed. Miss Harcourt had continued working 
most industriously at the table, without uttering a word, though 
Mrs. Hamilton’s countenance expressed such unusual perplexity 
and pain, that it would have seemed kinder to have spoken. 
One look at Ellen convinced her aunt, and she actually paused 
before she spoke, dreading the reply almost as much as the 
child did the question. It was scarcely audible; it might have 
been denial, it certainly was not affirmative, for Miss Harcourt 
instantly exclaimed — 

“ Ellen, how can you tell such a deliberate falsehood ? I 
would not tell your aunt, for I really wished you to have the 
opportunity of in some degree redeeming your disobedience; 
but I saw you move back the stand, and your sinful attempt at 
concealment by replacing the broken flower — and now you 
dare deny it ? ” 

u I did not replace the flower with the intention of concealing 
it,” exclaimed Ellen, bursting into tears; for that one unjust 
charge seemed to give back the power of speech, though the 
violent reproach and invective which burst from Caroline pre¬ 
vented any thing further. 

“ I must beg you to be silent, Caroline, or to leave the room, 
till I have done speaking to your cousin,” said her mother, 
quietly; “ the fate of your flower seems to make you forget 
that I have never yet permitted disrespect or any display of 
temper in my presence.” 

“ But what right had Ellen to touch the stand? ” 

“ None — she has both disobeyed and again tried to deceive 
me ; faults which it is my duty to chastise, but not yours to up- 


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braid. Answer me, Ellen, at once and briefly; your fault is 
known, and, therefore, all further equivocation is useless. Did 
you move that flower-stand ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied the child, almost choked with sobs, called 
forth the more from the contrast which her aunt’s mildness 
presented to Miss Harcourt’s harshness, and Caroline’s violent 
anger, and from the painful longing to say that her first dis¬ 
obedience was not entirely her own fault. 

“ Did you remember that I had expressly forbidden either 
of you to attempt to move it ? ” 

“ Yes,” replied Ellen again, an exclamation at the apparent 
hardihood of her conduct escaped from both Miss Harcourt and 
Caroline. 

“ And yet you persisted, Ellen; this is indeed a strange con¬ 
tradiction to your seemingly sincere sorrow for a similar fault 
a few months back. What did you move it for ? ” 

For full a minute Ellen hesitated, thus unhappily confirming 
the suspicion that when she did reply it was another equivo¬ 
cation 

“ To get a book which had fallen behind.” 

“ I do not know how a book could have fallen behind, unless 
it had been put or thrown there, Ellen; you said, too, that you 
did not replace the broken flower for the purpose of conceal¬ 
ment. I hardly know how to believe either of these assertions. 
Why did you leave the room just now ? ” 

“ Because — because — I knew you would question me, 
and — and — I felt I should not have courage to speak the 
truth — and I knew — you would be so — so displeased.” 
The words were scarcely articulate- 

“ I should have been better satisfied, Ellen, if your fear of 
my displeasure had prevented the committal of your first fault, 
not to aggravate it so sinfully by both acted and spoken un¬ 
truths. Painful as it is to me in this season of festivity and 
enjoyment to inflict suffering, I should share your sin if I did 
not adopt some measures to endeavor at least to make you re¬ 
member and so avoid it in future. I have told you so very 
often that it is not me you mostly offend when you speak or 
act falsely, but God himself — who is Truth — that I fear 
words alone will be of no avail. Go to your own room, Ellen ; 
perhaps solitude and thought, when your brother and cousins 
are so happy and unrestrained, may bring you to a sense of 
your aggravated misconduct better than any thing else. You 
will not leave your apartment, except for the hours of devotion 
and exercise — which you will take with Ellis, not with me —• 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


143 


till I think you have had sufficient time to reflect on all I have 
said to you on this subject.” 

Ellen quitted the room without answering; but it was se¬ 
veral minutes before Mrs. Hamilton could sufficiently conquer 
the very painful feelings which her niece’s conduct and her own 
compelled severity excited, to enter into her daughters’ amuse¬ 
ments ; but she would not punish them for the misconduct 
of another; and, by her exertions, temper to Caroline, and 
cheerfulness to Emmeline (whose tears of sympathy had al¬ 
most kept peace with Ellen’s of sorrow,) gradually returned, 
and their book became as delightful a recreation as it had been 
before. 

Great was Edward’s grief and consternation when he found 
the effects of what was actually in the first instance his fault; 
but he had not sufficient boldness to say so. His aunt had ex¬ 
pressly said it was the untruth that had occasioned her greatest 
displeasure; that if the disobedience had been confessed at once, 
she would, in consideration of the season, have forgiven it with 
a very slight rebuke. “ Now,” he thought, “ it is only the dis¬ 
obedience in which I am concerned, and if I confess it was 
mostly my fault, it won’t help* Ellen in the least — so what is 
the use of my acknowledging it ? Of course, if she wishes it, I 
will; but how could she tell such a deliberate story ? ” 

That he was acting one of equal deliberation, and of far 
more culpability, if possible — for he was permitting her to bear 
the whole weight of his fault — never struck him; if it did, he 
did not at all understand or believe it. He went to his sister, 
and offered to confess his share in her fault, and when — as he 
fully expected — she begged him not, that it could do her no 
good, and perhaps only get him punished too, his conscience 
was so perfectly satisfied, that he actually took upon himself to 
ask her how she could be so foolish and wrong as, when she 
was asked, not to allow that she had moved it at once — 

“ It would have been all right, then,” he said; and added, 
almost with irritation, “and I should not have been teased with 
the thought of your being in disgrace just now, when I wanted 
so much to enjoy myself.” 

“Do not think about me, then, Edward,” was his sister’s 
reply; “ I know the untruth is entirely my own fault, so why 
should it torment you; if I could but always tell and act the 
truth, and not be so very, very frightened — oh, how I wonder 
if I ever shall! ” and she leaned her head on her arms, which 
rested on the table, so despondingly, so sorrowfully, that Ed¬ 
ward felt too uncomfortable to remain with her. He was satis- 


144 


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fled that he could not help her; but the disagreeable thought 
would come, that if he had not tempted her to disobey, she 
would have had no temptation to tell an untruth, and so he 
sought a variety of active amusements to get rid of the feeling. 
The continuation of the entertaining astronomical lecture, too, 
was so very delightful, and Thursday and Friday morning 
brought so many enjoyments, that he almost forgot her, till 
startled back into self-reproach by finding that she was not to 
accompany them on Friday evening to Mr. Howard’s, whose 
great pleasure was to collect young people around him, and 
whose soiree in the Christmas holidays, and whose day in the 
country at midsummer, were anticipated by girls and boys, 
great and small, with such delight as to pervade the whole year 
round. Caroline never refused to join Mr. Howard’s parties, 
though they were “juvenile;” and Percy always declared they 
were as unlike any other person’s as Mr. Howard was unlike a 
schoolmaster. Ellen had so enjoyed the day in the country, 
that, timid as she was, she had looked forward to Friday with 
almost as much delight as Emmeline. 

In vain Emmeline, Edward, Percy, Herbert, and even Mr. 
Hamilton entreated, that she might be permitted to go. Mrs. 
Hamilton’s own kind heart pleaded quite as strongly, but she 
remained firm. 

“ Do not ask me, my dear children,” she said, almost as be¬ 
seechingly as they had implored; “I do assure you it is quite 
as much, if not more pain to me on this occasion to refuse, as it 
is for you all to be refused. If it were the first, second, or even 
third time that Ellen had disregarded truth, I would yield for 
your sakes; and in the hope that the indulgence would produce 
as good an effect as continued severity; but I cannot hope this 
now. The habit, is, I fear, so deeply rooted, that nothing but 
firmness in inflicting pain, whenever it is committed, will suc¬ 
ceed in eradicating it. God grant I may remove it at last.” 

The tone and words were so earnest, so sad, that not only 
did her children cease in their intercession, but all felt still more 
forcibly the solemn importance of the virtue, in which Ellen 
had so failed, from the effect of her conduct upon their mother. 
She was always grieved when they had done wrong, but they 
never remembered seeing her so very sad as now. Edward, 
indeed, could scarcely understand this as his cousins did ; but 
as his aunt still only alluded to the untruth, the qualm of con- 
cience was again silenced, for he had only caused the disobedi¬ 
ence. Emmeline asked timidly if she might remain with Ellen, 
and Edward followed her example, thinking himself very mag- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


145 


nanimous in so doing ; but both were refused — and surely he 
had done enough! 

All went — Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Harcourt, as 
well as the young people ; and it was such a happy evening ! 
First, there was the orrery, that Mr. Howard had prevailed 
on the lecturer to display first at his house, and Edward was 
almost wild in his delight; and then there were some games 
and intellectual puzzles, that made them all think, as well as 
enjoy; and then there were some music and singing and danc¬ 
ing, and every thing was so quiet and orderly, and yet so full 
of youthful enjoyment, that it was not much wonder there was 
no longer any room for a sorrowful thought, in any of the young 
party from Oakwood. Mrs. Hamilton alone thought of Ellen, 
and again and again accused herself of too great harshness ; 
for, perhaps, after all, it might have no better effect than kind¬ 
ness ; but what could she do ? She almost envied the quiet, 
unruffled unconcern of less anxious guardians ; but for her to 
feel indifferent to her responsibility was impossible. Ellen was 
so often unwell that her absence did not occasion so much re¬ 
mark as her brother’s or either of her cousins’ would. “ Mam¬ 
ma did not wish her to come,” was the answer she had desired 
the children to give to any inquiries, and her character for in¬ 
dulgence was so generally known, that no one suspected any 
thing more than indisposition. Annie Grahame’s dislike to 
Ellen might have made hex more suspicious, but she was not 
there. Cecil and Lilia were, with their father, but Miss Gra- 
hame did not condescend to attend Mr. Howard’s “juvenile” 

,parties; and Caroline, though she would not have allowed it, 
even to herself, was both happier, and much more inclined to 
enjoy herself, with the amusements and society offered to her 
when Annie was not at a party, than when she was. 

The next night, to Ellen’s disposition, was a greater trial 
than the Friday. She neither expected, nor hardly wished to 
be allowed to go to Mr. Howard’s, though, as the affectionate 
Emmeline had come to wish her good night, and with tears in 
her eyes repeated the regrets that she was not to go, she felt 
the bitter disappointment more than in the morning she had 
thought possible ; but Saturday night it had been her aunt’s 
custom, from the time she had been at Oakwood, to visit her 
daughters and niece before they went to sleep, and prepare 
them for the Sabbath’s rest and enjoyment, by an examination 
of their conduct during the past week, and full forgiveness of 
any thing that had been wrong. When younger, Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton had attended to this duty every night; but wishing to give 
13 


146 


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them a habit of private prayer and self-examination, independ¬ 
ent of her, she had, after Emmeline was twelve years old, set 
apart the Saturday night, until they were fifteen — old enough 
for her to relinquish it altogether. It had been such a habit 
with her own children, that they felt it perfectly natural; but 
with Ellen and Edward, from their never having been accus¬ 
tomed to it as young children, she had never felt the duty un¬ 
derstood by them, or as satisfactorily performed by herself as 
with her own. Still, Ellen looked forward to this night as the 
termination of her banishment; for great indeed was the of¬ 
fence whose correction extended over the Sabbath. Ellen could 
not remember one instance since she had been at Oakwood, 
when she heard the doors of her cousins’ rooms successively 
close, and her aunt’s step retreating, without approaching hers, 
and she did, indeed, believe herself irreclaimably wicked, or her 
kind, good aunt, would, at least, have come to her. Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton had purposely refrained from indulging her own inclina¬ 
tions, as well as comforting Ellen, hoping still more to impress 
upon her how greatly she had sinned. The impossibility of 
her perfectly comprehending her niece’s character, while the 
poor child felt it such a sacred duty to victimize herself, made 
her far more severe than she would have been, could she have 
known her real disposition; but how was it possible she could 
believe Ellen’s grief as deep and remorseful as it-seemed, when 
a short time afterward she would commit the same faults ? 
Her task was infinitely more difficult and perplexing than less 
anxious mothers can have the least idea of. 


CHAPTER X. 

PAIN AND PENITENCE.-TRUTH IMPRESSED, AND RECON¬ 
CILIATION.-THE FAMILY TREE. 

In feverish dreams of her parents, recalling both their deaths, 
and with alternate wakefulness, fraught with those deadly in¬ 
comprehensible terrors which some poor children of strong 
imagination know so well, Ellen’s night passed; and the next 
morning she rose, with that painful throbbing in her throat and 
temples, which always ended with one of those intense and 
exhausting headaches to which she had been so subject, but 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


147 


which her aunt’s care and Mr. Maitland’s remedies had much 
decreased, both in frequency and violence. She went to church, 
however, with the family, as usual. 

“ Remain out, Edward! ” Percy exclaimed, as they neared 
the house; “ the old year is taking leave of us in such a glo¬ 
rious mood, that Tiny and I are going to ruralize and poetize 
till dinner — will you come with us ? — and you, Ellen ? ” 

Ellen withdrew her arm from her brother’s, saying, as she 
did so — 

“ Go, dear Edward, I am very tired, and would rather not.” 

“ Tired, and with this short walk; and you really do look as 
if you were — what is the matter, Ellen ? you are not well.” 

His sister did not reply, but shrinking from the look which 
Mrs. Hamilton, who was passing at the moment,* fixed earnestly 
upon her, she ran into the house. 

Edward again felt uncomfortable; in fact, he had done so, 
so often since the Tuesday morning, that his temper was not 
half so good as usual. He did not choose to acknowledge, 
even to himself, that the uncomfortable feeling was ^elf- 
reproach, and so he vented it more than once in irritation 
against Ellen, declaring it was so disagreeable she should be 
in disgrace just then. 

It was Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton’s custom always to dine on 
Sundays at half-past one, to allow those of their household 
who were unable to attend divine service in the morning to go 
in the afternoon. With regard to themselves and their child¬ 
ren they pursued a plan, which many religionists might, per¬ 
haps, have condemned, and yet its fruits were very promising. 
Their great wish was to make the Sabbath a day of love, divine 
and domestic; to make their children look to it with joy and 
anticipation throughout the week as a day quite distinct in its 
enjoyment from any other; and for this reason, while their 
children were young, they only went to* church in the morning, 
the afternoons were devoted to teaching them to know and 
to love God in His works as well as Word, and their evenings 
to such quiet but happy amusements and literature, as would 
fill their young hearts with increased thankfulness for their 
very happy lot. As they grew older, they were perfectly at 
liberty to do as they pleased with regard to the afternoon 
church. Herbert, whose ardent desire to enter the ministry 
increased with his years, generally spent the greater part of 
Sunday with Mr. Howard, with his parents’ glad and full con¬ 
sent. The contemplation of serious things was his greatest 
happiness, but Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton did not expect that all 


148 


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their other children were to be like him. They were con¬ 
tented, and intensely thankful also, to perceive that diverse as 
were their characters, still the constant sense of God’s presence 
and of His infinite love was active and earnest in them all, 
inciting love and reverence for Herbert, even though they 
could not sympathize with him entirely. Another peculiarity 
of Mr. Hamilton consisted in his permitting no Sunday schools 
at Aveling and his other villages. The Saturday afternoons 
were set apart instead of the Sunday. He wished his wife 
and daughters, when they were old enough, to superintend 
them, and help the children in preparing for the Sunday ser¬ 
vices and Sunday enjoyments; but he particularly disliked 
the system of overwork on a day of rest, which could not fail 
to be the case,- if there were schools to attend to twice or three 
times a day, as well as church. 

It being the last day of the old year, Mr. Howard had ex¬ 
pressed a wish that Percy and Edward as well as Herbert 
should attend church that afternoon, and the lads, without the 
least reluctance, consented; Mr. Hamilton and Miss Harcourt 
were going too, and Caroline and Emmeline, of their own 
accord, asked permission to accompany them. Ellen’s pale, 
suffering face had so haunted her aunt, that she could not think 
of any thing else, and remained for a very much longer time 
than was usual to her character in a state of indecision. The 
next night was her children’s ball, and it was, too, the first day 
of the new year — always in her happy circle a festival of joy 
and thankfulness. Ellen’s face certainly looked as if she had 
suffered quite enough to prevent the recurrence of her fault, 
but so it had always done, and yet, before she could possibly 
have forgotten its consequences, she failed again. Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton sat for some time, after her children had left her, in 
meditation, trying to silence the pleadings of affection, and 
listen only to reason, as to whether continued severity or 
returning kindness would be the more effective, and save both 
Ellen and herself any further pain. 

To the child herself physical suffering was so increasing as 
gradually to deaden mental, till at last it became so severe, 
that she felt sick and faint. She knew the medicine she was 
in the habit of taking when similarly suffering, and the lotion 
which her aunt applied to her forehead, and which always 
succeeded in removing the excessive throbbing, were both in 
Mrs. Hamilton’s dressing-room ; but it seemed quite impossible 
that she could get at them, for she did not like to leave her 
room without permission, nor did she feel as if she could walk 


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so far, her head throbbing with increased violence with every 
step she took. At length she summoned sufficient courage to 
ring the bell, and beg Fanny to ask Ellis to come to her. The 
girl, who had been already dreadfully concerned that Miss 
Ellen had eaten no dinner, and on Sunday too! gave such an 
account of her, that the housekeeper hastened to her directly, 
and begged her to let her go for her mistress — it was so lucky 
she had not gone to church — but Ellen clung to her, imploring 
her not. 

“ Dear, dear Ellis, get me the medicine, and bathe my fore¬ 
head yourself; I shall get well then in an hour or two, without 
giving my aunt any trouble : pray, pray, don’t tell her. I 
scarcely feel the pain when she is nursing and soothing me ; 
but I do not deserve that now, and I am afraid I never shall.” 

“ But indeed, Miss Ellen, she will be displeased if I do not. 
Why, only the other morning she was quite concerned that I 
had not told her Jane was ill directly, and went herself two or 
three times every day to see she had every thing proper and 
comfortable.” 

“ But that is quite different, dear Ellis; do get the lotion ; 1 
feel as if I could not bear this pain much longer without cry¬ 
ing ; you can tell her afterward, if you think you ought.” 

And seeing that farther argument only increased the poor 
child’s sufferings, Ellis promised, and left her. Ellen leaned 
her forehead against the side of her little bed, and held the cur¬ 
tain tightly clasped, as if so to prevent the utterance of the hys¬ 
teric sob that would rise in her throat, though she did not know 
what it was. But the wholly unexpected sound of Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton’s voice saying, close by her, “ I am afraid you have one 
of your very bad headaches, Ellen,” so startled her, as to make 
her raise her head suddenly; and the movement caused such 
agony, that, spite of all her efforts, she could not prevent an 
almost convulsive cry of pain. 

“ My dear child ! I had no idea of pain like this ; why did 
you not send for me ? We have always prevented its becoming 
so very violent by taking it in time, my Ellen.” 

“ Miss Ellen would not let me go for you, madam,” rejoined 
Ellis, who, to her mistress’s inexpressible relief, was close at 
hand with the remedies she wanted, and she repeated what the 
child had said. 

“ Again your old mistake, Ellen. I would so much, so very 
much rather hear you say you were resolved to deserve my 
love, than that you did not merit it. Why should you not 
deserve it as well as your brother and cousins, if you deter- 


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mined with all your heart to try and not do any thing to lessen 
it ? Nothing is so likely to prevent your even endeavoring to 
deserve it, as the mistaken fancy that you never shall; but you 
are too unwell to listen to me now; we must try all we can to 
remove this terrible pain, and then see if we can bring back 
happiness too.” 

And for above an hour did Mrs. Hamilton, with the most 
patient tenderness, apply the usual remedies, cheered by find¬ 
ing that, though much more slowly than usual, still by degrees 
the violence of the pain did subside, and the hysterical affection 
give way to natural and quiet tears. Exhaustion produced a 
deep though not very long sleep, and after watching her some 
few minutes very anxiously, Mrs. Hamilton sat down by her 
bed, and half unconsciously drew toward her Ellen’s little 
Bible, which lay open on the table, as if it had been only 
lately used. Several loose papers were between the leaves ; 
her eyes filled with tears as she read on one of them a little 
prayer, touching from the very childishness of the language 
and imperfect writing, beseeching her Father in Heaven in His 
great mercy to forgive her sin, and give her courage to speak 
the truth, to help her not to be so frightened, but to guide her 
in her difficult path. Mrs. Hamilton little guessed how difficult 
it was, but she hoped more from the effects of her present 
penitence than she had done yet. She had copied, too, several 
verses from the various parts of the Old and New Testament 
which were condemnatory of falsehood, and her aunt felt no 
longer undecided as to her course of action. 

“You have employed your solitary hours so well, my dear 
Ellen,” she said, as, when the child awoke and looked anxiously 
toward her — she kissed her cheek with even more than her 
usual fondness — “ that I scarcely require your assurance of re¬ 
pentance or promises of amendment. When you have taken 
some coffee, and think you are well enough to listen to me, I 
will read you an illustration of the fearful sin of falsehood from 
the Old Testament, which I do not think I have yet pointed out 
to you. Ananias and Sapphira, I see you remember.” 

And when Ellen had taken the delicious cup of coffee, which 
her aunt had ordered should be ready for her directly she 
awoke, and sat up, though her head was still so weak it re¬ 
quired the support of a pillow, yet she seemed so revived, so 
almost happy, from the mesmeric effect of that warm, fond kiss, 
that her aunt did not hesitate to continue the lesson she was so 
anxious to impress, while the mind and heart were softened to 
receive it. She turned to the fourth chapter of the second book 


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151 


of Kings, and after briefly relating the story of Naaman — for 
she did not. wish to divert Ellen’s attention from the one import¬ 
ant subject, by giving any new ideas — she read from the 20th 
verse to the end, and so brought the nature of Gehazi’s sin and 
its awful punishment, at the hand of God himself (for the pro¬ 
phet was merely an instrument of the Eternal, he had no power 
in himself to call the disease of leprosy on his servant) to El¬ 
len’s mind, that she never forgot it. 

“Do you think Elisha knew where he had been, and what 
he had done, before he asked him?” she ventured timidly to 
inquire, as her aunt ceased; “Gehazi had told a falsehood al¬ 
ready to Naaman. Do you think God punished that or his 
falsehood to Elisha?” 

“ Most probably he punished both, my love. Elisha no doubt 
knew how his servant had been employed in his absence, in fact 
he tells him so” — and she read the 26th verse again — “but 
he asked him whence he had come, to give him an opportunity 
for a full confession of his first sin, which then, no doubt would, 
after some slight rebuke, have been pardoned. It was a very 
great fault at first, but the mercy of God was then, as it is now, 
so infinite so forgiving, that, had Elisha’s question recalled 
Gehazi to a sense of his great guilt and excited real repentance, 
his punishment would have been averted. But his aggravated 
and repeated falsehood called down on him a chastisement most 
terrible even to think about. Leprosy was not merely a dread¬ 
ful disease in itself, but it cut him off, from all the blessings and 
joys not only of social life but of domestic; because, as God 
had said it should cleave to his seed as well as to himself, he 
could never find any one who would dare to love him, and he 
must have been compelled to lonely misery all his life.” 

“ It was a very dreadful punishment,” repeated Ellen, fear- 
fully. 

“ It was, dearest; but it was merciful, notwithstanding. If 
God had passed it by, and permitted Gehazi to continue his 
sinful course, without any check or chastisement that would re¬ 
call him to a sense of better things, and a wish to pursue them, 
he might have continued apparently very happy in this life, to 
be miserable forever in the next; to be banished forever from 
God and His good angels; and would not that have been still 
more dreadful than the heaviest suffering here ? In those times 
God manifested his judgments through His prophets directly. 
That is not the case now, but he has given us His Word to tell 
us, by history as well as precept, those things that are pleasing 
to Him, and those which excite His anger; and which, if not 


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corrected while we are in this world, will cause our condemna¬ 
tion when our souls appear before Him in judgment, and when 
we cannot correct them if we would. Now children, and even 
young people, cannot know these things as well as their parents 
and guardians can, and if we neglect to teach them right and 
wrong, God is more angry with us than with them, as He tells 
Ezekiel.” She read from the 18th to the 22d verse of the 
third chapter, and explained it, so that Ellen could clearly un¬ 
derstand it, and then said, “And now, my dear Ellen, can you 
quite understand and quite feel why I have caused you so much 
pain, and been, as I dare say you have felt, so very, very 
severe ?” 

Ellen’s arms were round her neck in a moment, and her head 
cradled on her bosom, as her sole reply, for she felt she could 
not speak at first, without crying again. 

“ I wish I could remember that God sees me wherever I am,” 
she said, after a short pause, and very sadly. “ I am so fright¬ 
ened when I think of anybody’s anger, even Caroline’s, that I 
cannot remember any thing else.” 

“ Did you notice the Psalm we read the day before yester¬ 
day, my dear Ellen, in the morning lesson ? ” 

The child had not; and her aunt turning to the 129th, read 
the first twelve and the two last verses carefully with her, add- 
ing- * 

“ Suppose you learn one verse for me every morning, till you 
can repeat the whole fourteen perfectly, and I think that will 
help you to remember it, my Ellen, and prove to me that you 
really are anxious to correct yourself; and now one word more, 
and I think I shall have talked to you quite enough.” 

“Indeed, indeed I am not tired, dear aunt,” replied Ellen, 
very earnestly; “ I feel when you are talking to me as if I 
never could be naughty again. Oh! how I wish I never 
were.” 

“ I am not so unconscionable as to expect you to have no 
faults, my dear child; all I wish you to attend to, is more obe¬ 
dience to my commands. I have not said any thing about your 
disobedience, because your untruth was of still more conse¬ 
quence, but that grieved me too, for disobedience to me is also 
disobedience to God, for He has commanded you to obey your 
parents and guardians; and as you said you remembered I had 
told you not to move the flower-stand, I cannot imagine what 
could have induced you so wilfully to disobey me.” 

Ellen looked up in her face with such earnest, wistful eyes 
that Mrs. Hamilton felt puzzled; but as she did not speak, and 


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laid her head again on its resting place, to hide the tears that 
rose, her aunt merely added — 

“ But as I do not wish to inflict any further pain, I will not 
say any thing more about it; only remember, that though I may 
be displeased if you disobey me again, an instant and full con 
fession will soon gain my forgiveness; and that though I will 
never doubt your word, still, if I discover another untruth, it will 
and must oblige me to adopt still severer measures, painful as it 
will be to myself. Do not tremble so, my Ellen, you know you 
can prevent it; and remember too that whenever you fail in 
truth, you punish me as well as yourself; ” and Mrs. Hamilton 
fondly kissed her as she spoke. 

Light steps and a ringing laugh at that moment sounded in 
the passage, and Emmeline, though she certainly did ask if she 
might enter, scarcely waited for an answer, before she bounded 
in, the very personification of health and joy. 

“ Mamma, papa wants to know if we may not have tea to¬ 
night, and if we may not have Ellen’s company too ? ” 

_^It is -New Year’s Eve,” pleaded another joyous voice, and 

"Percy’s brown head just intruded itself through the half-opened 
cfoor; “ and our tree will not be half enjoyable unless we are 
all there.” 

“ I had really forgotten your tree, my dear children, but I am 
glad papa and you all have remembered it. Come in, Percy; 
Ellen will, I dare say, admit you into her room.” 

“ He raced me all around the gallery, mamma, declaring he 
would give you papa’s message, or so take away my breath, 
that even if I outstripped him, I should not be able ; but I have, 
you see sir.” 

“ Only because I did not know whether it was quite proper 
to enter a young lady’s room. But do come, mamma; Mr. 
Howard is with us as usual, and we are all au desespoir for 
you and our little Ellen — she may come, I can read it in your 
eyes.” 

“ Are you well enough, my love ? Do you think this poor 
little head will permit you to join us?” asked Mrs. Hamilton, 
anxiously for the sudden joy that gleamed in Ellen’s eyes at the 
idea of joining the family, told what the disappointment would 
be if she could not. 

“ It does not hurt me at all if I can rest it, aunt; but I am 
afraid it will not let me walk,” she added, sorrowfully, as the 
attempt to walk caused it to throb again. 

“ Never mind, Nelly, even if you cannot walk; you shall 
make use of my pedestrian powers,” replied Percy, joyously; 


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“ rest your head on my shoulder — that’s it — I should make a 
capital nurse I declare; should I not, mamma ? ” 

And gayly answering in the affirmative, his mother could 
scarcely prevent a throb of pride, as she looked on his fine manly 
face, beaming with benevolent kindness on his little cousin, whom 
he had tenderly lifted in his arms, and checked his boisterous 
mirth and rapid stride to accommodate her. 

“ You are not quite so light as Tiny, but she is all air; I ex¬ 
pect she will evaporate some day: never mind your hair, it does 
very well.” 

“ Stop, I will smooth it in a moment,” exclaimed Emmeline, 
eagerly; u it is Sunday, Percy, she shall look well.” 

“ You had better let me do it, Emmy,” said her mother, 
smiling; u your cousin’s head can only bear very tender hand¬ 
ling to-night. There, that will do — and I am quite ready to 
attend you.” 

The lights, the joyous voices, even her uncle’s kind greeting, 
almost overpowered poor Ellen; as Percy, still preserving his 
character of an admirable nurse, laid her carefully on a couch in 
the sitting-room, where not only tea was waiting, but the cele¬ 
brated family tree, which Mrs. Hamilton’s anxiety and Ellen’s 
sorrow had caused them both to forget, was displayed with even 
more than usual taste and beauty. 

Mr. Hamilton, when young, had been a great deal with his 
father in Germany, Denmark, and Sweden, and brought from 
the first and latter country certain domestic observances which 
had especially pleased him, as so greatly enhancing the enjoy¬ 
ments of home, and helping to a right understanding between 
parents and children, by increasing their mutual love and con¬ 
fidence. The family tree, or Christmas Tree, as it was called, 
was one of these, and from their earliest years it had been one 
of the children’s greatest delights on New Year’s Eve. Of 
course, as they grew older, and their taste improved, the tree 
itself, its suspended presents, and its surrounding decorations 
increased in beauty, and it had never been prettier than it was 
this year. The whole of the preceding afternoon had the young 
artists labored in preparing it, for of course, as the next day 
was Sunday, it was obliged to be all finished by the Saturday 
night; the servants, eager in all things to enhance the happiness 
of those whose parents made them so happy, did not care what 
trouble they took to help them. They always selected the room 
in which there was a very lofty and very deep oriel window, in 
the centre of which recess (which was almost as large as a 
moderately sized room) they placed the tree, which was a very 


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large, gracefully-cut spruce fir; it was placed in a tub filled 
with the same soil as that in which the tree grew, so that by 
watering and care it remained fresh for some time. The tub 
which contained it was completely hidden by the flowering 
shrubs that were placed round it, rising in an expanding pyra¬ 
mid, by means of several flower-stands, till the recess seemed 
one mass of leaf and flower; among which the superb scarlet 
geranium, that in Devonshire grows so luxuriantly all through 
the winter, shining against its own beautiful leaf, the brilliant 
berries of the holly, with their dark glistening branches, the 
snow-berry and flowering myrtle, shone preeminent. Small 
lamps glittered through the flowers, and were suspended in suffi¬ 
cient profusion from the pendent branches of the tree to half 
reveal and half hide the various gifts and treasures that were 
there deposited; and altogether the effect, from every part of 
the room, was really striking. 

The tree always remained till after their ball, but, the inter¬ 
change of gifts which took place on New Year’s Eve, causing 
.go many peculiarly happy and home feelings, was confined to 
the family group ; Mr. Howard always included. Many weeks 
before had each individual worked at liis own secret undertaking. 
If it could not all be done in private, no questions were ever 
asked, and each helped the other to keep it at least from their 
parents till the eventful night itself. They formed so large a 
party altogether, as little tokens of affection between the brothers 
and sisters were also exchanged, that the tree was quite loaded, 
and many a time had Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton discovered some 
trait of character or some ruling fancy, even in such a simple 
thing as the manufacture and presentation of home gifts. 
Their own idea of family ties was so strong and so holy, that 
one great aim in the education of their children was to make 
them not only love each other, but have thought and attention 
for individual feelings and wishes, and so heighten feeling by 
action, not depend entirely on natural ties. Mrs. Hamilton had 
known many young persons who were lavish in attentions and 
even presents to friends, but never imagined that their own 
home circle had the first and strongest claim to kindness, whether 
of word or deed. She knew that affections and thought lavished 
on comparative strangers never radiated on home, but that 
when given to home first, they shed light and kindliness far 
and near. 

Their tea was indeed a mirthful one; Ellen had been very 
fearful of meeting Mr. Howard, for she thought he must have 
been told how naughty she had been; but if he had, there was 


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nothing in his manner to say so; for he shook hands with her, 
and even kissed her most kindly, and told her, laughingly, that 
she must be quite well by the next night, or how was she to 
dance ? That he thought it would be a good thing if Emme¬ 
line could give her a little of her dancing mania, as she hardly 
ever only walked, even when she called, herself quite sober. 
Edward, every passing thought of self-reproach banished by 
his sister’s return to favor, was in the wildest spirits; Percy 
and Emmeline seemed to have laid a wager who could say the 
wittiest things and laugh the most. Herbert was very quiet, 
but looking as happy as the rest, and quite entering into their 
mirth, and showing all sorts of little gentle attentions to Ellen, 
who had seemed to shrink from his eye, more than from all the 
others. Caroline fully entered into the spirit of the evening, 
but neither she nor Miss Harcourt took the same notice of 
Ellen as the rest. The person who was to act the Wizard’s 
part, and by means of a long wand detach the various treasures 
from the tree, and carry them to the owners whose names they 
bore, was always chosen by lot; and great was the delight of * 
the young party, when this night the office fell on Mr. Howard. 
No one seemed more pleased than himself, performing it with 
such a spirit of enjoyment and originality, that a general vote - 
declared him the very choicest wizard they had ever had. To 
enumerate all the contents of that marvellous tree would be 
impossible. Their parents’ gifts to each of them were not in 
the tree, but always given afterward; but great was the de¬ 
light, when, after a terrible tussle to detach a large roll of 
cloth, down it came, right on Mr. Howard’s head, and almost 
enveloped him with its folds, and proved to be a beautiful 
cover, which he had long desired for a favorite table in his 
drawing-room ; at the embroidered border of which, not only 
the three girls, but Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Harcourt had all 
worked, as a joint offering of love and respect. This good man 
was so charmed, that he declared he would not use his wand 
again till he had full five minutes to admire it. Then there 
was a very pretty, comfortable pair of slippers, worked by 
Caroline and Emmeline for their father, and a pair of braces 
worked by Ellen, all accompanied by some most ludicrous, but 
very clever verses from Percy. Edward, who was very in¬ 
genious, had turned a very pretty stand for his uncle to put his 
watch in at night; and manufactured two little vessels out of 
cork for his aunt, so delicately, and neatly, that she promised 
him they should stand on the mantelpiece of her dressing-room, 
as long as they would last. Caroline had knitted her mother a 



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157 


very pretty bag, and Emmeline and Ellen had collected for her 
a variety of leaves throughout the year, and arranged them 
with great taste, both as to grouping and tinting, in a sort of 
small herbal, with two or three lines of poetry, selected and 
carefully written by each alternately, attached to each page. 
Mrs. Hamilton was excessively pleased, as she was also with a 
portfolio formed by drawings from both her boys, and tastefully 
made up by Miss Harcourt; and with their gifts to their father, 
a correct and most beautifully written out Greek poem, which 
Mr. Hamilton had several months, if not more than a year 
before, expressed a wish to possess, but the volume which con¬ 
tained it was so scarce, and so expensive from the quantity 
of uninteresting matter in which the gem was buried, that he 
had given up all thought of it. Herbert, however, had not, and 
never rested from the time his father spoke, till he had found 
and copied it — a task of no small difficulty, for the original 
was in many parts almost entirely effaced, and, if Herbert had 
not been an admirable Greek scholar, and a quick imaginator 
as to what it ought to be, Mr. Howard himself had said he 
could not have succeeded. The writing of the Greek character 
was most beautiful, and Percy, in imitation of the ancient mis¬ 
sals, had designed and painted an elegant illuminated border 
round it, and a beautiful cover forming a thin volume, so valua¬ 
ble, their father delighted them by saying, that he would not 
exchange it for twenty of the most precious volumes in his 
library. Such evidences of the home influence they had given, 
in permitting leisure for the cultivation of taste and imagina¬ 
tion, teaching them the beautiful, and opening innumerable 
resources of enjoyment within themselves, and thence allowing 
them to enhance the pleasures of others, were indeed most 
gratifying to those earnest and affectionate guardians. From 
their earliest years they had been taught, that to give the great¬ 
est amount of pleasure to their parents, their gifts must be all, 
or at least have something in them, of their own workmanship, 
and to enable them to do this, the lads had been taught in 
their hours of recreation to use all sorts of tools, visiting and 
knowing something of a variety of handicrafts; and the girls 
to work and draw, and even bring the stores of Nature to their 
aid when needed, as in the present case, with Emmeline and 
Ellen’s tasteful gift. 

Our young readers must call upon their own imagination as 
to the other treasures of this valuable tree ; for, a3 they would, 
no doubt, like to know what sort of New Year’s gifts Mr. and 
Mrs. Hamilton had in store for their children (for Miss Har- 
14 


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court too, for they never omitted her,) we really must not linger 
round it any longer. Poor Ellen, indeed, had the pain of feel¬ 
ing that her fault and its consequences had prevented the com¬ 
pletion of her purse for Percy, and a chain for Edward, and 
her cheek burned very painfully, when Mr. Howard, after ex¬ 
hausting the tree, exclaimed — 

“ Nothing from Ellen for Percy and Edward. Young gen¬ 
tlemen, have you been receiving any gifts in secret ? — out 
with them if you have — it is against all law and propriety.” 

“ We shall receive them next week, most potent conjurer, 
as you ought to have known without inquiring,” answered 
Percy, directly; and bending over Ellen, by whom he chanced 
to be standing, he said, kindly, “ Never mind, Nelly, you will 
have time to finish them both next week.” 

“ Do not say ‘ never mind,’ my dear boy, though I admire 
and sympathize in your kind care of your cousin’s feelings,” 
said his mother, in the same low tone, as only to be heard by 
him and Ellen. (Mr. Howard was very quick-sighted, and he 
took Percy’s jest and turned off all further notice of his words.) 
“ Even such a little thing as this in Ellen’s case is pain, and 
can only be felt as such; we do not lessen it by denying it, my 
Ellen, do we?” f 

“ I would rather feel it, if it would help me to remember,” 
was Ellen’s earnest and humble reply; adding, “ but I thank 
you, dear Percy — you are so kind.” 

“ Not a bit,” was his laughing answer. “ Why, what in the 
world is this ? ” he added; “ I thought the tree was exhausted.” 

“ So it is, but this was hid at its root,” replied Mr. Howard, 
“and though it is directed to Caroline, it is somewhat too 
heavy for my wand, and must reach her in a more natural 
way.” 

“Why, it is my flower, my own beautiful flower, or one 
exactly like it, at least,” exclaimed Caroline, joyfully, as, re¬ 
moving a hollow pyramid of green and white paper, a myrtle 
w r as discovered of the same rare kind, and almost in as beauti¬ 
ful flower as the one whose death had caused such increased 
coldness in her feelings toward Ellen. “ How did it come ? 
who could have procured it for me ? ” 

“ Ellis sent for it at my request, dear Caroline,” answered 
Ellen. “ She said they were to be purchased from the gar¬ 
dener at Powderham, and if it were possible to send any one 
so far, she would endeavor to get one for me; she told me 
yesterday she had succeeded, and I thought she gave it you, 
as I begged her, directly; I had no opportunity to tell you 
before, but I was so very, very sorry I had hurt your flower.” 


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159 


“ Ellis was very wise to put it among the pretty things of 
this evening, instead of obeying you,” said her uncle, kindly; 
“ and I really am glad that your great desire to replace it 
made her think of sending for it, for though I meant to have 
given Caroline another, I had so many things on my mind this 
week that it escaped me; and I know they are so much sought 
for, Wilson has scarcely ever one on hand.” 

“ Indeed, papa, you were much too kind to think about it at 
all,” said Caroline, very earnestly. “ I am afraid, if you knew 
how very cross and unkind the loss of the other made me, you 
would have withdrawn your idea of such indulgence. I am 
very much obliged to you, Ellen,” she continued much more 
cordially than she had yet spoken to her cousin; “ I did not 
deserve it even from you, for I worked myself into such an ill- 
temper, as almost to believe you did it purposely, and I had 
no right to think that.” 

It did indeed bear out its language, that pretty flower, for, 
with this one coldness removed — though Mrs. Hamilton’s 
trembling heart dared not hope it would be lasting — love now 
reigned preeminent. Every happy feeling increased when \n 
the presents from their parents each recognized something that 
.had been wished for, though they never remembered express¬ 
ing it. Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton were always united in these 
New Year’s gifts, though tokens of approval or occasional in¬ 
dulgences were often given separately. xhere were a set of 
most beautiful engravings for Percy, which for the last three 
or four months he had been most anxious to possess; but with 
the recollection of former folly very fresh in his memory, he 
had actually succeeded in driving them from his mind, and 
gave them up as unattainable, till he was richer, at least. For 
Herbert there was a fine edition of the Greek tragedians in 
their original, as beautiful a work of art, in its “ getting up,” 
as Percy called it, as its letter-press, which to Herbert was 
beyond all price. Edward was almost wild, as his uncle and 
aunt telling him he was fourteen next March, and might not 
be with them next New Year’s eve, presented him with a 
treasure coveted beyond all other, a gold watch. (His father’s 
had been given by his mother as a parting gift to Captain 
Cameron.) Mr. Howard declared that it was much too good 
frr a sailor, and would be lost his first voyage; he had much 
oetter hand it over to the Rectory, promising to take every 
care of it; but looking so mischievous, Edward vowed it should 
not get near his hand. For Caroline was a most complete 
and elegantly fitted-up embroidery-box, which quite charmed 


160 


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her, for it was exactly like, if'not more tasteful and complete, 
than one Annie Grahame had brought from London, and which 
she had wondered, Caroline could “ exist ” without. As Mr. 
and Mrs. Hamilton found that she could not only comfortably 
“ exist,” but much as she admired and had at first so coveted 
it, as to have a hard battle with discontent, she had never even 
hinted that it might be useful. As they perceived that her 
mind was so happily engrossed by the idea of the pleasure her 
gifts would bestow, as not to cast a thought upon Annie’s 
superior box, they indulged themselves and their child, and 
were more than repaid by the beaming look of delight with 
which it was received. For Emmeline was a parcel almost as 
large as herself, Percy declared. “A drawing-box all to your¬ 
self, Tiny ! Thank goodness'! My chalks and pencils have 
some chance of being let alone; I really ought to thank mam¬ 
ma and papa quite as much, if not more, than you, considering 
that in giving you a new possession they have preserved me 
an old one, which I began to suspect would desert me piece by 
piece. What, more ? ” he continued, laughing at his sister’s 
almost scream of delight, as she undid the covering of a book, 
and found it to be the complete poem of the “Lady of the 
Lake,” extracts of which she had read in the reviews, and so 
revelled in them, child as she was, as to commit them all to 
memory, with scarce an effort, only longing to know the whole 
story. 

“And now, Nelly, what is your secret? still larger than 
Tiny’s; what can it be ? Come, guess ; I have you in my 
power, for you are not strong enough to race me as Em would, 
and so I will be more merciful. What of all things would you 
like the best ? — one, two, three guesses, and then I’ll relieve 
you ; I want to know if papa and mamma have looked into 
your secret chamber of wishes, as they have done in all of 
ours.” 

“ Do not be afraid of guessing, Ellen ; you are so very quiet, 
that your secret chamber of wishes, as Percy calls it, is more 
concealed than any of the others,” said her uncle, smiling; “I 
am always obliged to refer to your aunt.” 

“ Come, Nell, speak or I will indict you as unworthy of any 
thing. What did you say ? a desk ! Hurrah! then, there it 
is ; and what a beauty — rosewood and mother-of-pearl —just 
fitted for an elegant young lady. How could mamma have 
found out so exactly ? You have used the old shabby thing 
Herbert lent you, as quietly and contentedly as if there could 
not be a better. Do let us examine it! ” and he dragged a 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


161 


table to her sofa, and displayed to the delighted child all its fit¬ 
tings-up, and its conveniences, and the pretty pen-holder and 
pencil-case, and fancy-wafers, and sealing-wax, and a little gold 
seal with her own name, and every thing that could possibly be 
thought of. “ And even a secret drawer,” exclaimed Percy, 
quite proud of the discovery. “ Do look, Ellen ; why, you can 
keep all sorts of secrets there, for no one would be as clever as 
I am to find out the spring without being told, and of course I 
should not betray it; ” and he laughingly sent away everybody 
while he explained to Ellen the spring. For some little while 
longer did the young party examine and reexamine and talk 
of their own and each other’s treasures. And then Mr. Ha¬ 
milton bade them remember, that, though it was New Year’s 
Eve, it was Sunday evening, too,* and that he had deferred the 
hour of evening prayer till ten, that they might have time to 
keep both, and so not lose the sacred music which was always 
part of their Sunday recreation, to put away their things, and 
adjourn to their music-room. And he was obeyed in a very 
few minutes; for, though they might have preferred lingering 
and talking where they were, what exertion could be too great 
for those who so thought of, so cared for them ? 

Returning happiness had had such a beneficial effect, that, 
though Ellen still looked pale enough for her aunt not to feel 
quite comfortable about her, she could walk without any return 
of pain, and in one or two hymns even join her voice with her 
cousins’, though it was weaker than usual. However small in 
appearance the talent for music, still Mrs. Hamilton cultivated 
it, in her boys as well as her girls, simply for the sake of giving 
them home resources and amusements that could be pursued 
together; she thought it such a mistaken notion in education to 
imagine that only perfection was worth attaining in the fine arts, 
and that, if there were not talent enough for that, it was better 
not attempted. Many a home might have envied the feelings 
with which old and young, to the lowest domestics, sought their 
pillows that night; for Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, so lavish in 
their indulgence to their children, never forgot that for their 
domestics and retainers there Avere also claims on New Year’s 
Eve; and the servants’ hall, and every cottage which called 
Mr. Hamilton landlord, had vied in happiness with his own. 

* While passing through the pi*ess, the scene of the Family Tree has been 
strongly objected to bv a valued Christian friend, as being enacted on the 
Sunday evening. It was too late then to repair the error. The author can 
only express her sincere regret for a fault originating in an insufficient know¬ 
ledge of the Christian feeling toward the Sabbath, and most earnestly trusts 
the°error may be pardoned. 

14 * 


162 


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Mrs. Hamilton had visited Ellen the last thing, to see that 
she was quite comfortable, and that there was no return of pain ; 
and she was almost startled, and certainly still more bewildered 
as to how such a depth of feeling could exist with such a real 
childish liability to error, and why it should be so carefully con¬ 
cealed, by the way in which Ellen clung to her, as she bent 
over her to wish her good night, with the same unrestrained af¬ 
fection as her own Emmeline did so often, with the only differ¬ 
ence, that with the latter it seemed always to spring from the 
very exuberance of happiness, which could only be thus dis¬ 
played. With Ellen, this night, it appeared like some deep, 
quiet feeling, almost of devotion, and as if — though Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton’s sober reason tried to persuade her imagination that it 
was too much meaning to attach to a mere embrace — she would 
thus tell her how intensely she felt, not only the indulgence of 
that evening, but the true kindness and watchful love which 
had caused the preceding sorrow. She might have thought, as 
no doubt many of our readers will, that Ellen was much too 
young and too childish, to contrast her system of treatment with 
her poor mother’s; that she felt her soothing care in her hours 
of physical suffering — her indulgent love making no distinction 
between her and her cousins — still the more keenly and grate¬ 
fully, from the recollection of her own mother’s constant prefer¬ 
ence of E dward, and utter neglect of her; and that this con¬ 
trast so deepened the love she bore her aunt, that it exceeded 
in intensity even that borne toward her by her own children. — 
Adults will think this all very fanciful, and perhaps interesting, 
but wholly improbable. Mrs. Hamilton herself would have 
banished the idea, as too imaginary to be entertained seriously 
for a moment, as any guide for her conduct. Ellen herself 
could not have explained or told herself that so she felt; and 
yet, notwithstanding, all we have written was there, and was 
the real prompter of that almost passionate embrace. 

“ Bless you, my darling! ” was Mrs. Hamilton’s fond reply, 
instead of permitting the child to perceive the surprise it ex¬ 
cited in herself; and Ellen sunk to sleep, almost more happy 
than ever in her little life she had felt before. 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


163 


CHAPTER XL 

THE CHILDREN’S BALL. 

If the thought of their promised ball were the first that en¬ 
tered the minds of the young party at Oakwood, as they opened 
their eyes on New Year’s day, it was not very unnatural. 
Percy gloried in the anticipation of being master of the cere¬ 
monies, and in conducting the whole affair with such inimitable 
grace and gallantry, that every one should declare it was far 
superior to any party, old or young, of the season, except Mr. 
Howard’s; that was beyond him, he said, for he could not put 
Mr. Howard’s head on his shoulders. Herbert anticipated the 
enjoyment of Mary Greville’s society, talking to and dancing 
with her undisturbed, and to hearing the almost universal re¬ 
mark, what a sweet girl she was. Edward did not exactly 
know what he expected, but he was in such a mood of hilarity 
and mischief, that the servants all declared Master Fortescue 
was “mazed.” To Caroline their ball was almost always (though 
unconfessedly) the happiest evening in#the year. She knew 
she was handsome — Annie Gfrahame had told her how very 
much she would be admired in London, and that if she were 
not her very dearest friend, she should envy her beauty terribly. 
She often in secret longed painfully for admiration and homage; 
and child as she still was in years, yet at her own house, and 
as Mr. Hamilton’s eldest daughter, in addition to her real attrac¬ 
tions, she always received both in sufficient measure, as to satis¬ 
fy even herself. She delighted in those evenings when it so 
chanced that her brothers had young friends with them, making 
no hesitation in confessing that she very much preferred con¬ 
versing with boys than with girls, there was so much more va¬ 
riety, more spirit; and though her mother’s heart would actually 
tremble at the fearful ordeal which an introduction to the plea¬ 
sures of the world would be to such a character, still she would 
not check the open expression of such sentiments by reproving 
them as wrong, and not to be encouraged. She knew that 
though education might do much, very much, it could not make 
natural characters all alike; nor, in fact, did she wish it. She 
did not grieve and complain that, with all her efforts she could 


164 


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not make Caroline give her as little trouble and anxiety as Em¬ 
meline, nor did she imagine that she should see the effect of her 
earnest prayers and cares all at once, or without constant re¬ 
lapses in the cherished object of her care. She did all she 
could to counteract a tendency which, situated as she would be 
when she entered life, must, without some strong, high prin¬ 
ciple, lead to suffering, and, perhaps, to sin — for what is co¬ 
quetry ? But she indulged in no idea of security, never believed 
that because she had so tried, so striven to sow the good seed, 
it could not fail to bring forth good fruit. She knew many 
trials might be in store for her; for how might she hope to pass 
through life blessed as she was then ? It might please her Fa- 
ther in Heaven to try her faith and duty through those she loved 
so intensely; but if she failed not in her task, he would bring 
her joy at last. 

To Emmeline the idea of dancing was quite enough to be 
the acme of enjoyment. The only drawback was, that in the 
intervals of rest, there was to be a little music, and though her 
mother had excused her at Mr. Howard’s, she knew that if any 
body expressed a wish to hear her at her own house, play she 
must; and at those times she was half sorry she had chosen to 
learn the harp instead of the piano, as Caroline played so well 
on the latter instrument nobody would care to hear her; but 
the harp was rather a novelty, and no little girl who was com¬ 
ing played it, and so she was sadly afraid there was no escape 
for her, and that was very disagreeable, but she would not 
think about it till the time came ; the dancing to such music as 
that which Mr. Hamilton had ordered from Plymouth was joy 
enough. 

Ellen though rather afraid of so many strangers, could not 
resist the general contagion of anticipated enjoyment. She did 
not indeed wake with the thought of the ball, but with the de¬ 
termination to learn the verse of the Psalm her aunt had point¬ 
ed out, and go and say it to her in her dressing-room before 
she went down. And as the first verse was very short she 
learned two, and repeated them without missing a word, and so 
as if she quite understood them, that her aunt was very much 
pleased ; and then Ellen could think of and join her brother’s 
and cousins’ delight, even though Mrs. Hamilton was obliged 
to be what she called very cruel, but what Ellen knew was 
very kind, though it did seem a restraint, and keep her very 
quiet all day, instead of letting her run about from room to 
room, as Emmeline and Edward, and even Percy did, for fear 
of another headache; and so well did quietness succeed, that 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


165 


she looked and was unusually well, and so was almost lively by 
the evening. 

Just before dinner, Percy, who had gone to ride because he 
said he was sure he should get into some scrape if he did not 
give a natural vent to his spirits, galloped back in .company 
with a gentleman, whose presence seemed to occasion him still 
greater excitement. 

“ Where is my mother ? and is my father at home ? ” he 
asked impatiently, flinging his horse’s rein to Robert, desiring 
him to take every care of the gentleman’s horse, as he should 
not let him leave Oakwood that night; and rushing across the 
hall threw open the door of their common sitting-room, and 
exclaimed — 

“ Mother, give me a vote of thanks and praise for my invin¬ 
cible eloquence! — Here is this anchorite, this monk of the 
moor, who, when I first encountered him, seemed so doughty a 
denier of my wishes, actually conquered — led a slave to your 
feet; reward me by throwing all the fascinations you possibly 
can in his way, that he-may only dream of his cold ride and 
desolate cottage on Dartmoor to-night.” 

“ Be quiet, madcap! ” replied Mrs. Hamilton, rising with 
very evident pleasure, and coming forward with extended 
hand ; “ your noisy welcome will not perrhit mine to be heard. 
This is indeed a pleasure, Mr. Morton,” she added, addressing 
the young clergyman with that earnest kindness, which always 
goes to the heart, “ and one that Mr. Hamilton will most 
highly appreciate — if, as I trust, the chains my son has thrown 
over you, are not so heavy as to become painful.” 

“ I should rather fear the pain will be in casting them off, 
Mrs. Hamilton, not in the wearing them,” replied Mr. Morton, 
almost sadly; “ it is the knowledge, that mingling as often in 
your home circle as Mr. Hamilton and my friend Percy desire, 
would wholly unfit me for the endurance of my loneliness, that 
keeps me so aloof, believe me. Inclination would act a very 
different part, but there was no resisting such eloquence and 
such happiness as his to-day,” he continued, more gayly. 

And Mr. Hamilton and Herbert entering as he spoke, their 
greeting was quite as warm and eager as Percy’s and his mo¬ 
ther’s, and Mr. Morton gave himself up, for the evening at 
least, to enjoyment. His own generous nature had been par¬ 
ticularly struck by Percy’s manly conduct with regard to his 
satire, and different as were their characters, a warm friend¬ 
ship from that moment commenced between them. It was 
impossible to resist Percy’s warm-heartedness of word and 


HOME INFLUENCE. 



deed; and tliat he would sometimes leave his luxurious home, 
and stay two or three days with Mr. Morton, seeming actually 
to enjoy the rude cottage and its desolate localities, and spread 
such a spirit of mirth within and around, that it was no wonder 
the afflicted young man looked to his society as almost his 
greatest pleasure, especially as he felt he dared not too often 
accept Mr. Hamilton’s continually-proffered invitation. Oak- 
wood was the home which had been his beau ideal for long 
years, but which now seemed wholly unattainable. He felt 
himself doomed to solitude and suffering, and the struggle for 
content and cheerfulness was always more painful after he had 
been with his friends. 

When all preparations for the evening were concluded, even 
the respective toilets completed, Percy and Emmeline found it 
impossible to resist trying the spring, as they called it, of the 
oaken floors, (whence the carpets had been removed,) and 
amused themselves by waltzing in the largest circle they could 
make. The beautiful suit of rooms were all thrown open, and 
perceiving Caroline standing by the piano in an adjoining apart¬ 
ment, Percy called out — 

“ Play us a waltz, Caroline, there’s a love; the very liveliest 
you can . find. Tiny and I want to try the boards while we can 
enjoy them to perfection, that is, when we are the only persons 
in the room.” 

“ You must excuse me, Percy,” she replied somewhat pet¬ 
tishly ; “ I should think you would have dancing enough in the 
course of the evening; and what will our friends think, if they 
come and find me playing?” 

“ Think ? why, that you are very obliging, which at present 
you are not,” answered Percy, laughing; “ never mind, Emmy ; 
let us try what our united lungs will do.” 

“ You may if you like, Percy, but really I am not clever 
enough to dance and sing at the same time — I should have no 
breath left,” was her joyous rejoinder. 

“ Come and dance, Caroline, if you will not play,” exclaimed 
Edward, who after decorating his button-hole with a sprig of 
holly, seemed seized with Percy’s dancing-mania. “ Do give 
me an opportunity of practising the graces before I am called 
upon to display them.” 

“ My love of dancing is not so great as to attempt it without 
music, so practise by yourself, Edward,” was Caroline’s quick 
reply. 

“ Without spectators, you mean, Lina,” observed her brother, 
very dryly; and as Emmeline begged him not to tease her, he 
asked — 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


167 


“ What lias put her in this ill-humor, Emmy ? ” 

“ Oh, I don’t know exactly ; but if you let her alone, she will 
soon recover it.” 

“ Well, to please you, I will; for you look so pretty to-night, 
I cannot resist you.” 

“ Take care, Percy, if you try to turn my head with such 
speeches, I shall go to Edward, and punish you by not waltz¬ 
ing with you,” said his little sister, shaking her head at him 
with a comic species of reproach. 

“ That’s right, Emmy ; do not take flattery even from a 
brother,” said her father, coming forward with a smile ; “ but 
will you not tire yourself by dancing already? ” 

“ Oh, no, papa; I feel as if I could dance all night without 
stopping.” 

“ Not with me, Emmeline,” rejoined Percy, shrugging his 
shoulders with horror at the idea; “ I should cry you mercy, 
before one half the time had elapsed.” 

“ But if you are not to be tired, will you not spoil your dress, 
and disorder all these flowing curls,” continued Mr. Hamilton, 
“ and surely that will be a great misfortune.” 

“ Indeed it will not, papa ; Percy has surely too much regard 
for me, to wilfully hurt my frock, and if my hair should be so 
troublesome as to get out of order, Fanny will rearrange it in 
a few minutes.” 

“ If you wish to cause alarm on that score, my dear father,” 
said Percy, with marked emphasis, “ You must go to Caroline, 
not to Emmeline. Thank goodness, I have one sister above 
such petty misfortunes.” 

“ Are you not too hard upon Caroline, Percy ? ” 

“ Yes, papa, he is indeed ; do not mind what he says,” an¬ 
swered Emmeline, very eagerly ; but Percy said, impetuously— 

“ I am not, Emmeline. I would lay any wager that some¬ 
thing has gone wrong with her dressing, to-night, and so made 
her pettish. Her frock is not smart enough, or she does not 
wear the ornaments she wished, or some such thing.” 

Caroline had fortunately quitted the music-room, or this 
speech would not have tended to restore her serenity ; but be¬ 
fore Mr. Hamilton could reply, Edward, who had been to seek 
Ellen, burst into the room exclaiming — 

“ Now, Percy, we may have a proper waltz ; aunt Emmeline 
says we may have just one before any one comes, and here she 
is to play for us, and Ellen for my partner,” and they enjoyed 
it in earnest. Mr. Hamilton watched them for a few minutes, 
and then went to seek his elder girl. 


168 


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* 

She was alone in a little room prepared for refreshments, 
tastefully arranging some beautiful flowers in a bouquet. She 
looked up as he entered, and so smiled that her fond lather 
thought Percy must be wrong, for there certainly seemed no 
trace of ill-temper. 

“ Why are you not with your brothers and sister in the draw¬ 
ing-room, my dear? and why did you just now refuse your 
brother such a trifling favor as playing a waltz ? ” he asked, but 
so kindly, that Caroline, though she blushed deeply, instantly 
replied — 

“ Because, papa, my temper was not quite restored; I went 
into the music-room to try mamma’s remedy of solitude for a 
few minutes, but Percy spoke to me before I had succeeded. 
I know I answered him pettishly, but indeed, papa,” she added, 
looking up earnestly in his face, “ indeed he is very provoking 
sometimes.” 

“ I know he is, my love; he does not always know how to 
time his jokes, or to make sufficient allowance for dispositions 
not exactly like his own; but tell me, what first occasioned tem¬ 
per so to fail that solitude was necessary.” 

Caroline’s blush became still deeper, and she turned away 
her head saying, very hesitatingly — 

“For such a very, very silly reason, papa, that I do not like 
to tell you.” 

“ Nay, my dear, do not fear that I shall either laugh at or 
reproach you. If you feel yourself how very silly it was, I 
am not afraid of its gaining too great ascendency, even if you 
fail again.” 

“ It was only — only — that I was not quite satisfied with 
the dress mamma desired me to wear to-night, papa; that was 
all, indeed.” 

“You wished, perhaps, to wear a smarter one, my love,” 
replied her father, kissing her glowing cheek so affectionately, 
that the pain of her confession was instantly soothed; “ but, 
indeed, I think mamma has shown a much better taste. It re¬ 
quires more care than you are yet perhaps aware of, to dress 
so exactly according to our age and station, as to do ourselves 
justice, and yet excite no unpleasant feelings in those of a 
lower, and no contempt in those of a higher grade. Many of 
our friends who are coming to-night could not afford to dress 
their children as we might ours, and do you not think it would 
be both inhospitable and unkind, by being over-dressed, to ex¬ 
cite any unpleasant feeling of inferiority in their minds, when 
actually none exists ? for difference of fortune alone can never 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


169 


constitute inferiority. I am wizard enough to guess that was 
mamma’s reason for your being attired so simply and yet so 
prettily to-night, and equally wizard enough to guess your rea¬ 
son for wishing to be smarter — shall I tell it you ? ” he added, 
playfully. “ Because you fancy Miss Grahame will be attired 
in such a very fashionable London costume, that yours will ap¬ 
pear so very plain and so childish. I see by that conscious 
smile, I have guessed correctly ; but, indeed, I would not ex¬ 
change my dear ingenuous Caroline, even were she attired in 
the cottager’s stuff frock, for Annie Grahame, did she bring 
worlds as her dowry. And as you like ornaments, wear this,” 
he added, tastefully twining a superb sprig of scarlet geranium 
in the rich dark hair that shaded Caroline’s noble brow ; “ and 
if mamma inquires, tell her your father placed it there, as a 
token of his approbation, for temper conquered and truth un¬ 
hesitatingly spoken — spite of pain.” 

Caroline’s brilliant eye sparkled with a more delightful sense 
of pleasure than any triumph of dress could have bestowed, 
and in answer to her father’s inquiry, for whom she had ar¬ 
ranged such a beautiful bouquet, she said — 

“ It is for mamma, dear papa — Emmeline is always before 
me ; but I think the idea of to-night’s enjoyment has so bewil¬ 
dered her, that she has forgotten it, so I may just have time to 
present it before any one comes,” and she hastened with her 
father to the drawing-room, where she found Mrs. Greville and 
her two children (for Alfred was at home for a few months,) 
in addition to Mr. Morton and their own family group ; and the 
young clergyman could not but admire the natural grace with 
which Caroline, after warmly welcoming her guests, presented 
her flowers to her mother. It was a very little thing, but the 
joys and griefs of home are almost all made up of little things 
and Mrs. Hamilton was pleased, not from the attention alone, 
but that it proved, trifling as it was, that the annoyance and 
discontent which her command had occasioned in her child had 
left no unkind feeling behind them ; and the manner with which 
she received it made Caroline very happy, for she had inwardly 
feared her ill-temper not only deserved, but had excited her 
mother’s displeasure. 

Emmeline’s look of disappointment and self-reproach at her 
own unusual forgetfulness was so irresistibly comic, that Percy 
and Edward burst into ari immoderate fit of laughter, which 
the former only checked to ask Caroline where she had been, 
and what she had done, to produce such an extraordinary 
change for the better in her appearance in so short a time. 

15 


170 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


“ Oh, you have no right to my secrets, Percy,” was her per¬ 
fectly good-humored reply; “I do not think I shall answer 
you, except by having the charity to refer you to papa, who 
has produced the change.” 

“ By means of this pretty flower, then, I imagine,” said Mrs. 
Hamilton; “ its power I do not pretend to know, but the taste 
with which it is placed might vie with that of the most fashion¬ 
able artists of the metropolis. Mrs. Greville do unite with 
me in congratulating Mr. Hamilton on his new accomplish¬ 
ment.” 

The rapid succession of arrivals prevented any further re¬ 
mark, and very speedily the inspiring sound of the beautiful 
music, which was stationed in a sort of antechamber between 
the drawing-room and ball-room, removed any thing like stiff¬ 
ness or reserve which the younger guests might have at first 
experienced among themselves. After two or three quadrilles, 
the spirit of enjoyment seemed to reign alone, not only among 
the dancers themselves, but even those who sat out and talked, 
either from preference or because the sets were full. Percy, 
his brother, and cousin, were so active, so universal in their 
attention and politeness, that all had the same measure of 
enjoyment; there was no sitting down four or five times con¬ 
secutively for any one, and therefore neither weariness nor 
dissatisfaction. Where there is a great desire in the givers 
of a party to make every one as happy as themselves, and 
thoroughly to enjoy it, they seldom fail to succeed. And there 
was such a variety of amusements in the various rooms that 
were thrown open, suitable for all ages — from the mammas 
and papas to the youngest child, that it was scarcely possible 
to feel any thing but pleasure. Very many sets had been 
formed and danced before the Grahame family appeared, and 
as Caroline glanced at her friend and even at her little sister, 
it required a very vivid recollection of her father’s words to 
prevent a feeling of false shame, while Annie looked at Em¬ 
meline and even her favorite Caroline for a few minutes with 
almost contempt. 

“ People talk so very much of Mrs. Hamilton’s taste,” she 
thought, “ but she can have none in dress, that’s certain — why 
no one could distinguish her daughters from the poorest gen¬ 
tleman’s here ! — But no one can ipistake my rank. Thank 
goodness, there is not a dress like mine — how it will be en¬ 
vied ! ” 

If looks were evidence of envy, Annie had them to her 
heart’s content, but how would she have been mortified, could 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


171 


she have read the secret meaning of those looks, the contrast 
drawn between the manners and appearance of Lady Helen’s 
daughters and those of the Honorable Mrs. Hamilton. Lady 
Helen herself, indeed, when she saw Caroline and Emmeline, 
was quite provoked that she had been so weak as to permit, 
and even encourage Annie, to select her own and her sister’s 
costume. 

“ You are so late,” said Mrs. Hamilton, as she came forward 
to greet them, “ that I almost gave you up, fearing I don’t 
exactly know what. I do hope nothing unpleasant has occa¬ 
sioned it.” 

“ Oh no,” was Mr. Grahame’s reply, and it was almost bit¬ 
ter ; “ only Miss Graliame was so dreadfully afraid of being 
unfashionably early, that her mother did not choose to come 
before — indeed, my patience and my little Lilia’s was so ex¬ 
hausted that we thought of leaving Cecil to be their beau, and 
coming alone an hour ago.” Lady Helen’s look of entreaty at 
Mrs. Hamilton was answered by her saying directly — 

“ I suppose Annie was thinking of her London parties, and 
forgot how completely Gothic we are as to hours and every 
thing else in Devonshire. But you must try and forget such 
superior pleasures to-night, my dear girl,” she added, jestingly, 
though the young lady felt it rather uncomfortably as earnest, 
“ or I fear you will lind but little amusement.” Alfred Gre- 
ville at that moment came to claim Annie as his partner, and 
she gladly joined him, for though Mrs. Hamilton had “ cer¬ 
tainly no taste in dress,” she never felt quite at her ease in 
her presence. Cecil and Lilia were soon provided with little 
partners, and dancing with much more real delight than their 
sister. 

It was scarcely possible for any one, mucli less a parent, to 
look at Caroline that night without admiration. She was so 
animated, so graceful, so pleasing, and as such completely the 
centre of attraction (and really without any effort on her part) 
to all the gentlemen, young or old, in the room. The lads 
congregated round her, and it was rather a difficult task to 
keep clear of offence, when so very many more entreated her 
to dance than the length of the evening permitted; but she 
managed to talk to all, and yet not to neglect any of her own 
sex, for she always refused to dance, if she fancied her being 
in a quadrille prevented any couple who had not danced so 
much, and at those times contrived to conciliate five or six in¬ 
stead of only one. Emmeline took charge of the younger child¬ 
ren, often refusing to dance with older boys, who would Lave 


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made her much pleasanter partners, that she might join the 
little quadrille and set them all right. 

“I am really glad to^ee Ellen among us to-night, and seem¬ 
ing truly to enjoy herself,” said Mrs. Greville, addressing Mrs. 
Hamilton, who was standing rather apart at the moment, watch¬ 
ing Caroline with such mingled feelings of pride and dread, 
that she was quite glad when her friend’s voice disturbed her 
train of thought. “ She looked so ill in church yesterday, that 
I half feared we should not see her. I told her I was quite 
grieved that she was too unwell to be at Mr. Howard’s last 
Friday, and — ” 

“ What did she say ? ” inquired Mrs. Hamilton, anxiously. 

“ That it was not illness which prevented her; but she looked 
so confused and pained that I changed the subject directly, and 
the smile soon came back.” 

“ You touched on a very painful theme,” replied Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton, with real relief; “Ellen and I were not quite as good 
friends as we usually are, last week, and my poor little girl felt 
my severity more than I imagined or meant. I gave her to 
your dear Mary’s especial care to-night, for she is so timid, that 
left quite to herself, I was afraid it would be more pain than 
pleasure. Mary has taken my hint most admirable, for Ellen 
seems quite happy.” 

“ It would be rather hard, if your little niece’s were the only 
sad face in this scene of enjoyment; surely, if ever there were 
happiness without alloy, it is here.” 

“ If you think so, Mrs. Greville, you will agree with my friend 
Morton, who has just been half poetizing, half philosophizing on 
this scene,” said Mr. Hamilton joining them, with the young 
clergyman leaning on his arm. “ He says there is something 
singularly interesting in watching the countenances and move¬ 
ments of children, and in tracing the dawnings of respective 
characters.” 

“ You are not one of those, then, who think childhood a mere 
negative species of existence,” rejoined Mrs. Greville. 

“ Indeed I do not; there is much more pleasure to me in 
watching such a scene, than a similar one of adults. It is full 
of that kind of poetry, which, from the beauty and freshness of 
the present, creates a future of happiness or sorrow, good or 
evil, as something in each countenance seems dimly to foretell. 
How many will be the longing thoughts thrown back in after 
years upon to-night! ” 

“ Do you think, then, childhood the happiest season of life ? ” 

He answered in the affirmative, but Mr. Hamilton shook his 
head. 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


173 


“I differ from you, my good friend,” he said. “Childhood 
feels its griefs as bitterly as those of maturer years. We are 
apt to think it was all joy in the retrospect, perhaps because it 
has not the anxiety and cares of riper years, but sorrow itself 
is felt as keenly. From reason not being perfectly formed, the 
difficulty to control self-will, to acquiesce in the to them incom¬ 
prehensible wishes of parents or guardians, the restraint they 
are often compelled to use, must be all trials even to well-regu¬ 
lated children, and to those subject to the caprices of weakness, 
indolence, neglect, indulgence at one time, and tyranny at an¬ 
other, feelings disbelieved in, and therefore never studied or 
soothed — the little heart thrown back upon itself — Morton, 
believe me, these are trials as full of suffering, and as hard to 
be endured, as those which belong to manhood.” 

“ You may be right,” replied Morton; “ but do you not think 
there is an elasticity in childhood which flings off sorrow, and 
can realize happiness sooner than older years ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly, and most happy it is that they are so consti¬ 
tuted, else what would become of them? their susceptibilities 
for either joy or sorrow are equally quick. If the former did 
not balance the latter, how would their tender frames and quick 
affections bear their burden? The idea that childhood is in 
itself the happiest season in life is so far mischievous, that it 
prevents the necessary care and watchfulness, which alone can 
make it so. But we must not philosophize any more, for it has 
made us all grave. I see my wife is addressing Miss Grahame, 
and I think it is for music. Come, Morton, take Mrs. Greville 
to the music-room, and woo melody instead of poetry for the 
next half hour. Miss Grahame promises to be a very fair mu¬ 
sician, so you will be charmed.” 

They adjourned to the music-room, where Percy had already 
gallantly conducted Annie; and several of the guests, young and 
old, seconded the move. Annie Grahame really played re¬ 
markably well, so far as execution and brilliancy were con¬ 
cerned, and Mrs. Hamilton was delighted at the expression of 
Grahame’s face as he listened to his child and the applause she 
excited. “ Why will he not try to win his home-affections,” she 
thought, “ when he is so formed to enjoy them ? and why, why 
has Helen so indolently, so foolishly cast away her happiness ? ” 
was the thought that followed at the contrast which Lady 
Helen’s face presented to her husband’s; she knew Annie 
played well, she had heard it from very superior judges, and 
how could it concern her what the present company thought ? 

A very pretty vocal duet from the two sisters followed, and 


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soon afterward Caroline approached the music-stand, near 
which Percy and Mr. Morton were talking, and Percy, with 
his usual love of provoking, exclaimed — 

“You surely are not going to play after Miss Grahame, 
Caroline. If your powers deserted you a few hours ago, and 
prevented the execution of a waltz, they would certainly do 
you a charity in deserting you completely now.” 

Caroline’s cheek burned, but she answered, with spirit — 

“ Mamma desired me to oblige my friends, Percy ; and she 
would not do so, if she thought I should disgrace myself r 
her.” 

“ Do not heed your brother, Miss Hamilton,” interposed Mr. 
Morton, taking the music from her, and offering her his arm to 
lead her to the piano. “ I have had the pleasure of hearing 
you often, and those who cannot find an equal, if not superior 
charm in your playing to Miss Grahame’s do not deserve to 
listen.” 

“ Nay, you must be flattering, Mr. Morton; think of Annie’s 
advantages.” 

“ Indeed, my dear Miss Hamilton, yours exceed hers ; no 
master’s heart is in his pupil’s progress, as a mother’s in her 
child’s, even should she not teach, but merely superintend.” 

Caroline was seated at the instrument as he spoke, and there 
was something in his few words touching a right chord; for as 
she began to play she certainly thought more of her mother 
than any one else; and determined, if possible, that others 
should think with Mr. Morton, forgetting at the moment that 
very few, except their own immediate circle, knew whose pupil 
she was, not imagining that the mistress of Oakwood and its 
large possessions could have time or inclination for any part of 
the education of her daughters. Morton was certainly right 
as to the amount of admiration, equalling, if not surpassing, 
that bestowed on Miss Grahame ; there was a soul, a depth of 
expression and feeling, in Caroline’s far simpler piece, that won 
its way to the heart at once, and if it did not surprise as much, 
it pleased more, and excited an earnest wish to listen to her 
again. 

“ Does not your younger daughter play ? ” inquired a lady, 
who had been much attracted with Emmeline. 

“Very little, compared with her sister,” replied Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton; she is not nearly so fond of it, and therefore does not 
devote so much time to its acquirement just yet.” 

“ Do you think it right to permit children to follow their own 
inclinations with regard to their education ? ” asked another, 
rather stern-looking lady, with much surprise. 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


175 


“ Only with regard to their accomplishments ; my Emmeline 
is as fond of drawing as Caroline is of music, and therefore I 
indulge her by permitting her to give more time to the one 
than to the other.” 

“ But do you think natural taste can be traced so early ? that 
it can be distinguished from idleness or perverseness ? ” 

“ Indeed, I do,” replied Mrs. Hamilton, earnestly. “ If a 
child be allowed leisure to choose its own pursuits, and not 
always confined to the routine of a schoolroom, natural taste 
for some employment in preference to another will, I think 
always display itself. Not that I would depend entirely on that, 
because I think it right and useful to cultivate a taste for all the 
fine arts, only giving more time to that which is the favorite. 
My niece has shown no decided taste for any particular pursuit 
yet; but I do not neglect the cultivation of accomplishments on 
that account; if, in a few years, a preference manifests itself, 
it will be quite time enough to work hard at that particular 
branch.” 

“ Is that pretty little harp used by either of your daughters ? ” 
inquired the first speaker. “ It looks very much as if it were 
the especial property of my engaging little friend.” 

“Your guess is correct,” replied Mrs. Hamilton, smiling. 
“ Emmeline was quite sure she should hate music, if she must 
learn the great ugly piano. If she might only have a harp, she 
would do all she could to learn, and she really has.” 

“ And may we not hear her ? ” 

“ When the room is not quite so full; she has not half her 
sister’s confidence, and so large an audience would frighten 
away all her little powers ; but I will promise you a very sweet 
song instead,” she added, as Herbert approached, and eagerly 
whispered some request. “ That is, if my persuasions can pre¬ 
vail on my young friend; Mrs. Greville, must I ask your in¬ 
fluence, or will mine be enough ? ” 

“ What, with Mary ? I rather think, your request in this 
case will be of more weight than mine; ” and a few minutes 
afterward Mrs. Hamilton led the blushing, timid girl in triumph 
to the piano. Her voice, which was peculiarly sweet and thrill¬ 
ing, though not strong, trembled audibly as she commenced; 
but Herbert was turning over the leaves of her music, his mo¬ 
ther was standing close beside her, and after the first few bars 
her enthusiastic spirit forgot the presence of all, save those she 
loved, and the spirit of her song. 

Mrs. Hamilton never listened to and looked at her at such 
moments without a trembling foreboding she vainly struggled 


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to overcome. There was something in those deep blue, earnest 
eyes, the hectic color that with the least exertion rose to her 
cheek, the transparency of complexion, the warm and elevated 
spirit, the almost angel temper and endurance in her peculiarly 
tried lot, that scarcely seemed of earth ; and never was that 
sad foreboding stronger than at that moment, as she looked 
round the crowd of young and happy faces, and none seemed 
to express the same as Mary’s. She could scarcely command 
her voice and smile sufficiently to warmly thank her young 
favorite as she ceased; but Mary was more than satisfied by 
the fond pressure of her hand. 

This little interruption to the actual business of the evening 
only increased the zest and enjoyment, when dancing recom¬ 
menced. Even the call to supper was obeyed with reluctance, 
and speedily accomplished, that they might return the sooner 
to the ball-room. The hours had worn away, it seemed, on 
gossamer-wings, and as each happy child felt assured that the 
delight could not last much longer, the longing to dance to the 
very last moment seemed to increase. Emmeline’s excitable 
spirit had thrown off all alloy, for it was quite impossible any 
one would think of asking her to play now ; she had arranged 
all the remaining couples — for the room had begun very much 
to thin — for the favorite haymaker’s country dance,* and ac¬ 
cepting Edward as her own partner, and being unanimously 
desired to take the top, led off her young friends with such 
spirit and grace, and so little semblance of fatigue, that it cer¬ 
tainly appeared as if she would verify her own words, and 
dance all night. 

Miss Grahame had declared it was much too great a romp, 
and declined joining it. Caroline, who would have enjoyed it, 
more out of politeness to her friend than inclination, sat down 
with her, and a cheerful group of some of the older lads, and 
one or two young ladies, joined them. Herbert and Mary find¬ 
ing the quadrille for which they were engaged, changed to a 
dance for which, though they had quite the spirit, they had not 
the physical strength, enjoyed a quiet chat instead, and Ellen 
seated herself by her favorite Mary, declining, from fatigue, 
Alfred Greville’s entreaty that she would second Emmeline. 

“ I declare I could dance myself with that merry group,” 
exclaimed Mr. Grahame, after watching them some time, and 
all his austerity banished by the kindly spirit of the evening. 


* A country dance, the author believes, peculiar to Devonshire, for she has 
never seen it danced elsewhere. 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


177 


“ Mrs. Hamilton, Mrs. Greville, do one of you take pity on 
me, and indulge my fancy.” 

Both ladies laughingly begged to be excused, offering, how¬ 
ever, to introduce him to a partner. 

“ No; it must be one of you or none at all. That little 
sylph of yours, Mrs. Hamilton, seems inclined to dance for you 
and herself too. What a pretty couple she and that handsome 
cousin of hers make ! And there goes my little Lilia — I do 
hope I may have one really happy child. What, tired, Percy — 
compelled to give up — absolutely exhausted ? ” 

u Indeed I am,” answered Percy, who had waltzed his part¬ 
ner very cleverly out of the line, and, after giving her a seat, 
threw himself on a large ottoman. 

“ Mother, if you do not put a stop to , Emmeline’s proceed¬ 
ings, her strength will entirely fail, and down she and Edward 
will go, and tne rest follow, just like a pack of cards. Do, 
pray, prevent such a catastrophe, for I assure you it is not in 
the least unlikely.” 

The gravity with which he spoke caused a general laugh; 
but Mrs. Hamilton, feeling by the length of time the fatiguing 
dance had lasted, there was really some truth in his words, de¬ 
sired the musicians to stop ; causing an exclamation of regret 
and disappointment from many youthful lips, and Emmeline 
and Edward ran up to her, to entreat that they might go on a 
little longer. Mrs. Hamilton, however, refused ; and Edward 
yielded directly, but Emmeline was so much excited, that obedi¬ 
ence was most unusually difficult; and when her mother desired 
her to sit down quietly for ten minutes, and then come to the 
music-room, as Mrs. Allan most particularly wished to hear 
her play before she left, she answered, with more petulance 
than she was at all aware of — 

“I am sure I cannot play a note now — it will be no use 
trying.” 

“ Emmeline! ” exclaimed her mother, adding, gravely, “ I 
am afraid you have danced too much, instead of not enough.” 

The tone, still more than the words, was enough; poor Em¬ 
meline was just in that mood when tears are quite as near as 
smiles; her own petulance seemed to reproach her too, and 
she suddenly burst into tears. Many exclamations of sym¬ 
pathy and condolence burst from her mother’s friends: —• 
“ Poor child! ” “ She has over-tired herself! ” “ We cannot 

expect her to play now! ” — but Mrs. Greville saying, with a 
smile, that her little friend’s tears were always the very lightest 
April showers, successfully turned the attention of many from 


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her; while Mrs. Hamilton taking her hand from her face, 
merely said, in a low voice — 

“ Do not make me more ashamed of you, Emmeline. What 
would papa think if he were to see you now ? ” Her little girl’s 
only answer was to bury her face still more closely in her 
mother’s dress, very much as if she would like to hide herself 
entirely; but on Mrs. Allan saying, very kindly — 

“ Do not distress yourself, my dear. I would not have asked 
to hear you play, if I had thought you would dislike it so 
much. I dare say you are very tired, and so think you will 
not succeed.” 

She raised her head directly, shook back the fair ringlets 
that had fallen over her face, and though the tears were still on 
her icheeks and filling her eyes, she said, with a blending of 
childish shyness and yet courageous truth, impossible to be 
described — 

“No, ma’am, I am not too tired to play —I did not cry from 
fatigue, but because I was angry with mamma for not letting 
me dance any more, and angry with myself for answering her 
so pettishly; and because — because — I thought she was dis¬ 
pleased, and that I deserved it.” 

“ Then come and redeem your character,” was Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton’s only notice of a reply that actually made her heart throb 
with thankfulness, that her lessons of truth were so fully under¬ 
stood and practised by one naturally so gentle and timid as her 
Emmeline: while Mrs. Allan knew not what to answer, from 
a feeling of involuntary respect. It would have been so easy 
to escape a disagreeable task by tacitly allowing that she was 
too tired to play; and what careful training must it have been 
to have so taught truth. 

Mrs. Allan would not ask you before, because she knew you 
did not like to play while the room was so very full; therefore, 
ought you not to do your very best to oblige her ? ” 

Emmeline looked timidly up in her mother’s face to be quite 
sure that her displeasure had subsided, as her words seemed to 
denote; and quite satisfied, her tears were all checked, and 
taking Mrs. Allan’s offered hand, she went directly to the 
music-room. 

Mrs. Hamilton lingered to desire Herbert (who had come up 
to know the cause of his sister’s sudden tears) to form the last 
quadrille, and reserve a place, if he possibly could, for Emme¬ 
line, as they would not begin till she had done. Her little girl 
was playing as she rejoined her, and it really was a pretty 
picture, her fairy figure with her tiny harp, and her sweet face 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


179 


seeming to express the real feeling with which she played. 
There was no execution in the simple Highland air, but her 
vivid imagination lent it a meaning, and so, when fairly playing, 
she did not mind it. Mrs. Allan had lost a little girl just at 
Emmeline’s age, who had also played the harp, and there was 
something in her caress and thanks, after she had done, that 
made Emmeline stand quietly at her side, without heeding the 
praises that were lavished round her. Herbert at that moment 
appeared with one of the young Allans. 

“ Come, Emmy, we are only waiting for you ; Mr. Allan 
says you have not favored him to-night, and he hopes you will 
now.” 

“ Pray, do,” added Mrs. Allan, as her son gayly pleaded his 
own cause; Emmeline only waited to read her mother’s con¬ 
sent in her eyes, for she thought that she ought not to dance 
any more; and in another minute the joyous music had re¬ 
sounded, and she was dancing and chatting as gayly and hap¬ 
pily as if there had been no interruption to her joy. 

“And you will leave all these delights to imprison yourself 
in a man-of-war ? ” asked Mr. Graliame, jestingly, of Edward, 
while waiting for his wife and daughters, who were the last 
departures, (much to Annie’s horror, for it was so unfashionable 
to be quite the last,) to be cloaked and shawled. 

“Imprison!” was his very indignant reply, “and on the 
wide, free, glorious ocean! flying on the wings of the wind 
wherever we please, and compelling the flag of every land to 
acknowledge ours! No, Mr. Grahame; you landsmen don’t 
know what liberty is, if you talk of imprisonment in a ship! 
We take our home wherever we go, which you landsmen can¬ 
not do, though you do so poetize on the maternal properties of 
Old Mother Earth.” 

“ Only hear him, Hamilton,” exclaimed Grahame, laughing 
heartily; “ any one would think he had been a sailor all his 
little life. You talk boldly now, my boy, but you may change 
your tone when you have once tried the cockpit.” 

“I do not think I shall,” answered Edward, earnestly; “I 
know there are many hardships, and I dare say I shall find 
them more disagreeable than I can possibly imagine; but I 
shall get used to them; it is so cowardly to care for hardships.” 

“And is it no grief to give up all the pleasures of land ? ” 

“ I exchange them for others more delightful still.” 

“And the sea is to be your sister, uncle, aunt, and cousins — 
altogether?” 

“Yes all,” replied Edward, laughing; adding, as he put his 


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arm affectionately round Ellen, “my sister has so many kind 
friends that she will be able to spare me till I am old enough to 
do all a brother ought.” 

“You are a good fellow, Edward, and I see I must not talk 
of parting, if I would preserve this evening’s pleasure unalloy¬ 
ed,” Grahame said, as he laid his hand kindly on Ellen’s head, 
and then turned to obey the summons of his wife. 

The young party, no doubt, felt that it would be infinitely 
more agreeable to sit up all night, and talk of the only too 
quickly concluded enjoyment, than to retire to their respective 
pillows; but the habits of Oakwood were somewhat too well 
regulated for such dissipation, though, no doubt, their dream¬ 
land that night, was peopled with the pleasant shadows of 
reality, and, according to their respective sources of enjoyment, 
brought back their evening’s happiness again and again. 


CHAPTER XII. 

EFFECTS OF PLEASURE.- THE YOUNG- MIDSHIPMAN.- ILL- 

TEMPER, ITS ORIGIN AND CONSEQUENCES. 

The return to the quiet routine of work, and less exciting 
recreation after the Christmas pleasures, was of course a trial 
to all our young friends. Not so much to the boys, as to their 
sisters; Percy’s elastic spirits found pleasure in every thing, 
being somewhat too old to care for his studies, or feel them now 
as a restraint. Herbert only exchanged one kind of happiness 
for another. Edward looked to every month that passed, as 
bringing nearer the attainment of his wishes; and lie was so 
fond of Mr. Howard, and so quick at learning, and such a fa¬ 
vorite with all his schoolfellows, that he did not care at all when 
the time of work came again. Ellen and Emmeline both found 
it very difficult to like their lessons again; especially the latter, 
who felt as if work and regularity were most particularly dis¬ 
agreeable things, and sometimes was almost in despair as to her 
ever enjoying them again; but she tried very hard to overcome 
indolence, and never give way to petulance, and succeeded, so 
as to win her the delight of both her parents’ approbation. In¬ 
dulgence always made her feel as if no effort on her part was 
too great to prove how much she felt it; and when any one, old 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


181 


or young, experiences this sort of feeling, they need never be 
afraid but that they will succeed in their efforts, painful and 
hard as they may at first seem. It was not so difficult for El¬ 
len as for Emmeline, because she was less able to realize such 
an intensity of pleasure. She seemed safer when regularly 
employed; and besides, to work hard at her respective studies, 
was one of the very few things which she could do to prove 
how much she loved her aunt; and accustomed from such early 
childhood to conquer inclination, and, in fact, never to fancy 
pleasure and indulgence were her due, there was happiness 
enough for her even in their more regular life: but to Caroline 
the change was actually unbearable. While admiration and 
praise only incited Emmeline to greater exertions, they caused 
Caroline completely to relax in hers, and to give, in conse¬ 
quence, as much trouble and annoyance as she had received 
pleasure. The perseverance in her various studies, especially 
in music, the unceasing control over her temper, which before 
the holidays she had so striven for, had now entirely given way. 
It was much less trouble for her to learn than Emmeline, there¬ 
fore her studies with Miss Harcourt were generally well per¬ 
formed ; but the admiration she had excited made her long for 
more, and believe herself a person deserving much more con¬ 
sideration and respect than she received from her own family. 
These thoughts persisted in, of course produced and retained 
ill-temper; which, as there was no longer any fear of her being 
debarred by its indulgence from any pleasure, she made no at¬ 
tempt to overcome. The praise bestowed on her music, made 
her fancy herself a much greater proficient than she really was, 
and though her love of music was great, her love of praise was 
greater; and so she not only relaxed in her practice, but 
inwardly murmured at the very little praise she received from 
her mother. 

“How can you give mamma so much trouble, Caroline, 
when you know you can do so much better ? ” Herbert ex¬ 
claimed, one day, when an attack of weakness, to which he was 
liable, had confined him to a sofa. 

Mrs. Hamilton, after giving her usual hour’s lesson, in which 
Caroline had chosen to do nothing, had left her in very evident 
displeasure, and even Herbert was roused to most unusual 
indignation. 

“ What is the use of practising day after day ? ” was her 
angry reply; “lam sure I should play just as well if I prac¬ 
tised less.” 

“ Yqu did not think so a month ago, Caroline.” 

10 


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“ No, because then I had something to practise for.” 

“ And have you nothing now ? — Is mamma’s approbation 
nothing ? — Is the pleasure you give all of us, by your talent 
for music, nothing ? — Oh, Caroline, why will you throw away 
so much real gratification, for the vain desire of universal ad¬ 
miration ? ” 

“ There surely can be no harm, Herbert, in wishing to be 
universally loved and admired.” 

“ There is, when it makes you discontented and unhappy, 
and blind to the love and admiration of your home. What is 
the praise of strangers worth, compared to' that of those who 
love you best? ” 

“ There is not much chance of my receiving either at pre¬ 
sent,” was the cold reply. 

“ Because you will not try for the one most easily and happily 
obtained and even without thinking of praise, how can you 
be so ungrateful, as to repay all mamma’s care and trouble by 
the indolence, coldness, and almost insolence, you have shown 
to-day ? How few mothers of her rank would — ” 

“ You may spare your sermon, Herbert; for at this moment 
I am not disposed either to listen to or profit by it,” interrupted 
Caroline, and she left the room in anger. A faint flush rose to 
the pale cheek of her brother, but he quickly conquered the 
natural irritation, and sought his mother, by every fond atten¬ 
tion on his part, to remove the pain of Caroline’s conduct. 

This continued for about a fortnight, at the end of which 
time, Caroline suddenly resumed her music with assiduity, and 
there were no more ebullitions of ill-temper. Herbert hoped 
his expostulations were taking effect; Mrs. Hamilton trusted 
that her child was becoming sensible of her past folly, and try¬ 
ing to conquer it, and banish its memory herself: both, how¬ 
ever, were mistaken. Annie Grahame had imparted to her 
friend, in strict confidence, that her mother intended giving a 
grand ball about the end of February, and meant to entreat 
Mrs. Hamilton, as a personal favor, to let Caroline be present. 
Caroline little knew the very slight foundation Annie had for 
this assertion. Lady Helen had merely said, perhaps she 
would ask; and this was only said, because she was too indo¬ 
lent and weak to say “ No ” at once. Not that she had any 
unkind feeling toward Caroline, but simply because she was 
perfectly certain Mrs. Hamilton would not consent, and to 
persuade as earnestly as Annie wished was really too much 
trouble. 

Caroline’s wishes in this instance triumphed over her better 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


183 


judgment, for had she allowed herself to think soberly, she 
ought to have known her mother’s principles of action suffi¬ 
ciently, not to entertain the slightest hope of going. 

The invitations (three weeks’ notice) for her parents and 
brothers came. In them she did not expect to be included, but 
when above a week passed, and still not a word was said, dis¬ 
appointment took the place of hope, and it was only the still 
lingering belief that she might go, even at the last moment, that 
prevented the return of ill-temper. 

Now Lady Helen really had asked, though she did not per¬ 
suade ; and Mrs. Hamilton thanked her, but, as she expected, 
decidedly refused. “ Caroline was much too young,” she 
said, “ for such a party. Did she know any thing about being 
asked ? ” Lady Helen said, with truth, that she had not men¬ 
tioned the subject to her, and had desired Annie to be equally 
silent. 

Mrs. Hamilton quite forgot that Miss Grahame was not 
famous for obedience, and, relying on her friend’s assurance, 
determined on not saying any thing to Caroline about it; wishing 
to spare her the pain which she knew her refusal would inflict. 
As it happened, it would have been better if she had spoken. 
The weather had prevented Caroline from seeing Annie, but 
she was quite sure she would not deceive her; and her proud 
heart rebelled against her mother, not only for refusing Lady 
Helen’s request, but for treating her so much like a child, as to 
hide that refusal from her. Under the influence of such 
thoughts, of course, her temper became more and more difficult 
to control and as a natural consequence, anger and irritation 
against her mother, and self-reproach for the indulgence of such 
feelings increased, till she became actually miserable. 

It happened that about this time Miss Harcourt left Oakwood 
for a week, on a visit to an invalid friend at Dartmouth. Mrs. 
Hamilton had given her full liberty, promising that her pupils 
should lose nothing by her absence. She left on the Saturday, 
and the Thursday was Lady Helen’s ball. On the Monday, 
Mr. Hamilton detained Edward, as he was leaving the library, 
after morning prayers, and told him that he had received a let¬ 
ter, which he thought might chance to interest him. Ten mi¬ 
nutes afterward, Edward rushed into the breakfast-room, in a 
state of such joyous excitement that he could scarcely speak. 

“ Wish me five, ten, twenty thousand joys ! ” he exclaimed, 
springing from chair to chair, as if velocity of movement should 
bring back speech. “ In one month the Prince William sails, 
and I am to meet her at Portsmouth, and be a sailor, a real 


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sailor; and to-morrow fortnight uncle says we are to start for 
London, and have ten days there to see all the fine sights, and 
then go to Portsmouth, and see all that is to be seen there, and 
then — and then — ” 

“ Take care you do not lose your wits before you leave Oak- 
wood/’ interposed Percy, laughing heartily. “ I should not at 
all wonder, before you go, that you will be fancying the river 
Dart the Atlantic, and set sail in a basket, touch at all the islets 
you may pass, imagining them various cities, and finally land at 
Dartmouth, believing it Halifax, your destined port — that will 
be the end of your sailorsliip, Edward, depend upon it.” 

“ I rather think I should stand a chance of being ducked into 
my .sober senses again, Percy, unless wicker be waterproof, 
which I never heard it was.” 

“ But I have, though,” eagerly interrupted Emmeline ; “ the 
Scots and Piets invaded England in wicker boats, and to have 
held so many men, they must have been strong and -waterproof 
too. So you see, Percy’s basket is only an ancient boat, Ed¬ 
ward. You are much better off than you thought you were.” 

“ Give me Alfred’s wooden walls instead, Emmy ; your Piets 
and Scots were very little better than savages — Alfred is my 
man; he deserves to be called great, if it were only for form¬ 
ing the first English navy. But neither my aunt nor Ellen 
have wished me joy. I think I shall be offended.” 

Mrs. Hamilton could not speak at the first moment, for the 
joy, the animation of her nephew so recalled the day when her 
own much-loved brother, her darling Charles, had rushed into 
her room, to tell her all his glee, for no one ever listened to and 
shared in his joys and troubles as she did. He was then 
scarcely older than Edward, as full of hope and joy and buoy¬ 
ancy— where was he? Would his fate be that of the bright, 
beautiful boy before her ? And as Edward threw his arms 
round her neck, and kissed her again and again, telling her he 
could not be quite sure it was not all a dream, unless she wished 
him joy too, it was the utmost effort to prevent the fast gather¬ 
ing tears, and so command her voice, that he should not hear 
her tremble. Poor Ellen looked and felt bewildered. She had 
always tried to realize that Edward, to be a sailor, must leave 
her; and in fact aware that his summons would soon come, her 
aunt and uncle had often alluded to his departure before her, 
but still she had never thought it near; and now the news was 
so sudden, and Edward was so wild with joy, she fancied she 
ought to rejoice too, but she could not; and Percy w^as obliged 
to ask her merrily, what ailed her, and if she could not trust to 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


185 


his being a much more worthy brother than such a water-rat, 
who had no business whatever on land, before she could take 
her place at the breakfast table and try to smile. But her eyes 
would rest on Edward even then, and she felt as if there were 
something across her throat and she could not swallow the nice 
roll which Herbert had so kindly buttered and cut, and so 
quietly placed in her plate ; and when Edward said something 
very funny, as he was in the habit of doing, and made them all 
laugh, she tried to laugh too, but instead of a laugh it was a 
sob that startled herself, for she was quite sure she did not 
mean to be so foolish; but instead of being reproved, as she 
was afraid she should be, she felt her aunt’s arm thrown gently 
round her, till she could hide her face on her shoulder, and cry 
quite quietly for a few minutes, for they went on talking and 
laughing round the breakfast-table, and nobody took any notice 
of her, which she was quite glad of, for she could not bear Ed¬ 
ward to think she was unhappy when he was so pleased. And 
after breakfast, though he was in such a desperate hurry to tell 
Mr. Howard the good news, that when he did set off he left 
even Percy far behind him, he found time to give her a hearty 
kiss, and to tell her that he loved her very much, though he 
could not help being so glad he was going to sea; and that he 
was quite proud of her, because though he knew she was very 
sorry he was going, she did not cry and make a fuss as some 
selfish people would ; and then she really did smile. 

“ It is Monday morning, my dears, and I find Ellis and Mor¬ 
ris require my attention for a longer time than I expected,” 
Mrs. Hamilton said, as she entered the school-room, and found 
the three girls preparing their books, “ so I must set you all to 
work, and see how well you can get on without me till eleven, 
when I will rejoin you. I shall order the carriage atrhalf-past 
twelve, and if all I require is completed, we will pay your 
favorite old ruin a visit, Emmy ; the morning is so lovely, that 
I think we may venture to take our sketch-books, and see what 
other part of Berry Pomeroy we can take pencil possession of.” 

Such an anticipation was quite enough for Emmeline. Her 
dance about the room was only checked by the idea that her 
lessons would never be ready, nor her exercises and sums done, 
unless she sat quietly down ; and so, with a great effort, she gave 
all her attention to her various tasks, and mastered them even 
before her mother returned. Ellen, though she tried quite as 
much, was not so successful. The Prince William would sail 
in miniature on her slate, over all her figures. The recollection 
of the awful storm they had encountered on their voyage to 
1G * 


X8G 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


England would return so vividly, that the very room seemed to 
heave. And then — but she could not make out why she 
should think about that then — her mother’s death-bed came 
before her and her promise, and it seemed harder still to part 
with Edward, from a vague dread that came dVer her, but still 
she tried to attend to what she had to do, and congratulated 
herself on its completion before her aunt appeared. 

Caroline, alone, was determined not to work. Because she 
had not made herself miserable enough already, the most un¬ 
founded jealousy entered her head from seeing her mother’s 
caressing kindness toward Ellen at breakfast; why was not her 
manner as kind to her! She was quite as unhappy, and her 
mother must see it, but she took no notice of her — only of 
Ellen. She might be cross sometimes, but she never told 
stories or tried to hide her faults, and it was very hard and un¬ 
just that she should be treated so like a child, and Ellen made 
so much of; and so she thought and thought, not attempting to 
do a single thing till she actually made herself believe, for the 
time, that her kind, indulgent mother had no love for her ; and 
every thing looked blacker than before. 

She made no effort to rouse herself even in Mrs. Hamilton’s 
presence, but listened to her remonstrances with such extreme 
carelessness, almost insolence, that her mother felt her patience 
failing. The self-control, however, for which she had success¬ 
fully striven, enabled her so to overcome the irritation, as to re¬ 
tain her own quiet dignity, and simply to desire Caroline to 
give her attention at once to her studies, and conquer her ill- 
temper, or not to think of accompanying them on their excur¬ 
sion, as idleness and peevishness were better left to themselves. 
An insolent and haughty reply rose to Caroline’s lips ; but with 
an effort she remained silent, her flushed forehead alone denot¬ 
ing the internal agitation. Emmeline’s diligence and the ap¬ 
probation she received irritated her still more ; but she rejoiced 
when she heard her mother tell Ellen there was not a correct 
line in her French exercise, and her sum, a compound long di¬ 
vision, wrong from the very first figure. But the pleasure soon 
gave place to indignant anger, when, instead of the reproof 
which she believed would follow, Mrs. Hamilton said very 
kindly — 

“ I should very much like these done correctly, Ellen, be¬ 
fore we go out; suppose you ensconce yourself in that bay- 
window, there are a table and chair all ready for you, and we 
shall not interrupt you as we should if you remain at this table. 
I know they are both very difficult, to-day especially, but the 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


187 


more merit in their accomplishment, you know the more pleased 
I shall be. 

Ellen obeyed directly; a little care, and with the assistance 
of her grammar, which her aunt permitted her to refer to, in¬ 
stead of dependthg entirely on her memory that morning, ena¬ 
bled her to succeed with her French; but four times was that 
tormenting sum returned to, till at last her tears effaced the 
figures as fast as they were written. Still, patience and resolu¬ 
tion in both teacher and pupil conquered, and the fifth time 
there was not a figure wrong; and Mrs. Hamilton, fondly put¬ 
ting back the heavy ringlets which in Ellen’s absorbed attention 
had fallen over her tearful cheeks, said, playfully — 

“ Shall I tell you a secret, my little Ellen ? I was quite as 
disinclined to be firm this morning as you were to be patient; 
so you see we have both gained a great victory. My conjuring 
propensities, as Emmy thinks them, told me that you had real 
cause for some little inattention, and, therefore that it was very 
cruel in me to be so determined; but m y judgment would tell 
me that my feeling was wrong, and that to conquer disinclina¬ 
tion and overcome a difficulty, was a much better way of les¬ 
sening even natural sorrow than to give up. I do not expect 
you to think so just now, but I fancy you are not very sorry 
this disagreeable, terrible tiresome sum has not to be done to¬ 
morrow, which it must have been, had you left it to-day.” 

Ellen was so glad, that she felt almost happy, and her few 
other duties were done quite briskly, for Mrs. Hamilton had 
been so kind as to countermand the carriage till one, that she 
and Caroline might have time to finish. But Caroline, if she 
had not tried before, was now still less capable of doing. so. 
Every word of kindness addressed to Ellen increased the storm 
raging within, and the difficulty of restraining it in Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton’s presence caused it to burst forth with unmitigated violence 
the moment she quitted the apartment, desiring Emmeline and 
Ellen to make haste, and put away their books, but still with¬ 
out taking the least notice of her. Invective, reproach, almost 
abuse, were poured against Ellen, who stood actually frightened 
at the violence she had so very innocently excited, and at the 
fearful and deforming passion which inflamed her cousin’s every 
feature. Caroline’s anger had miscounted time, or she must 
have known that her mother could not have gone far enough, 
for such unusual tones of excitement to escape her quick hear¬ 
ing. Mrs. Hamilton, startled and alarmed, returned directly, 
and so vividly did her child’s appearance and words recall her 
own misguided sister in those uncontrolled fits of fury, under 


188 


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which she had so often trembled, that present disappointment 
and dread for the future, took possession of her, and for the 
moment rendered her powerless. Caroline was too much en¬ 
grossed to perceive her at first, and she had, therefore, time to 
rally from the momentary weakness. * 

“What does this mean?” she exclaimed, fixing her eyes on 
Caroline, with that expression of quiet but stern reproof, which 
when she did use it — and it was very seldom — had the power 
of subduing even the wildest excitement. “What has Ellen 
done, that you should abuse her with this unjust and cruel and 
most unfeminine violence? You have indulged your ill-temper 
till you do not know what you say or do, and you are venting 
on another the anger which my displeasure has caused you to 
feel toward me and toward yourself. I desire that you will 
control it directly, or retire to your own room, till you can be¬ 
have with some degree of propriety, and not disturb the com¬ 
fort and happiness of others in this most uncalled-for manner.” 

“I will not go,” answered Caroline, bursting into violent 
tears, and scarcely aware of what she was saying, “ I know I 
dislike Ellen, and I have reason to dislike her, for before she 
came, you were never so often displeased with me; you are 
always kind arid indulgent to her, always treat her as a rea¬ 
sonable being, not as the child, the infant you think me. I know 
you have lost all love for me, or you must have seen I was un¬ 
happy, and spoken kindly to me, as you did to Ellen; I have 
every reason to dislike her, stealing your affection from me as 
she has, and I do with all my heart! ” 

“ Go, and prepare for our drive, my dear children,” Mrs. 
Hamilton said, as she calmly turned for a moment to Emmeline 
and Ellen, who both stood bewildered, the former from actual 
terror that her sister should dare so to address her mother, and 
the latter from pain at the violent avowal of a dislike which 
she had intuitively felt, but had always tried to disbelieve. 
“ The beauty of the day will be gone if we linger much longer, 
and I do not intend to be disappointed of our promised ramble. 
Ho not think any thing of what this unhappy girl is saying; at 
present she scarcely knows herself, and will by and by wish it 
recalled, far more intensely than ever we can.” 

Emmeline longed to throw her arms round her mother, and 
with tears beseech her to forget what Caroline had said; but, 
though Mrs. Hamilton had spoken cheerfully, and in quite her 
usual tone of voice to them, there was something in her counte¬ 
nance, that checked any display of softness even in her affec¬ 
tionate child; something that almost awed her, and she left the 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


189 


room with Ellen to prepare for the promised excursion, which 
had, however, lost all its anticipated enjoyment from the uncon¬ 
trolled temper of another. 

“ Now, Caroline, I will answer you,” said Mrs. Hamilton, as 
soon as they were alone, and again regarding Caroline, who 
was sobbing violently, with that same searching look. “ Your 
charges are such very heavy ones, that I really must request 
you during my absence to arrange and define them in some 
order. I am so perfectly ignorant of having given you any 
foundation for them, that, before I can attempt defence, you 
must inform me exactly and definitely of what you complain. 
That this morning my manner was kinder to Ellen than to you 
I quite acknowledge. Her inattention and depression had a 
cause, yours had none; for if you were unhappy, it was from 
your own fearful temper, which, by encouragement, has black¬ 
ened every thing around you. You may employ your time till 
dinner as you choose ; but at five o’clock come to me in my 
dressing-room, prepared to define and inform me of every 
charge you can bring against me. You will consider this a 
command, Caroline, disregard or evasion of which will be dis¬ 
obedience.” 

She left the room, and in a very short time afterward Caro¬ 
line heard the carriage drive off; but for nearly three long 
hours she never moved from her seat, so utterly miserable, as 
scarcely even to change her position. Never in her life before, 
not in her most angry moments, had she so spoken to her mo¬ 
ther, and her remorse was almost intolerable. Again and 
again she remembered what Mrs. Hamilton had told her so 
often, that, if she did not strive and pray against the dominion 
of ill-temper while young, it would become more and more un¬ 
controllable, and the older she became, the more difficult to 
subdue, even in a moderate degree ; and her words were indeed 
true. It had been many months since temper had gained such 
an ascendency, and its effects were far, far more violent, and 
its power over her more determined, and if, as she grew older, 
it should be still worse, what would become of her ? how in¬ 
sufferably wretched! what would she not have given to have 
recalled her words ? The jealousy which had arisen, now she 
knew not how, had sunk into air before those few calm inquir¬ 
ing sentences from her mother, and in her excessive misery 
every kind deed and word and look, every fond indulgence and 
forbearance, in fact, all the love her mother had so lavished on 
her from her infancy, rushed back upon her, till she actually 
hated herself, and longed the more intensely for the comfort of 


190 


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that soothing affection, which, in real pain or childish sorrow, 
had never been refused her. 

“ Why, why did Annie tell me any thing about that hateful 
ball ? ” she exclaimed, at length, as the sound of many joyous 
voices and the dressing-bell proclaimed the return of the vari¬ 
ous members of her family only in time to prepare for dinner. 
“ It was all, all from that; I know now, only from that one 
thought — one wish. Why was I such a fool, as not to tell 
mamma at once that I knew I was to be asked, and wished so 
much to go ? — if she had refused me, it would not have been 
half the pain I have made for myself. And how can I meet 
papa’s eye and Percy’s unkind jokes with eyes like these ? ” 
she added, as on rising to go to her own room, she caught sight 
of her own face in a mirror, and actually started at the dis¬ 
figurement which the violence of her emotion had wrought. 
“ Oh, how I wish mamma had not desired me to go to her; 
that I could but hide myself from everybody — or get rid of 
this horrible black cloud.” 

From every eye but her mother’s she could and did hide 
herself; for saying that her head ached, which was the truth, 
and she did not wish any thing to take, she refused to go down 
to dinner. Mrs. Hamilton had successfully exerted herself 
during their excursion, and. Emmeline and Ellen enjoyed them¬ 
selves so thoroughly as almost to forget the alloy of the morn¬ 
ing ; and even when Caroline’s message recalled it, the boys 
were all so merry, that it did not disturb them. Percy always 
declared that Caroline’s headache was only another term for 
temper-aclie, and he would certainly have sent her some mes¬ 
sage of mock pity, if his quick eye had not discovered or 
fancied that his mother did not look quite as well as usual, and 
so he contented himself by trying still more to be the life of the 
dinner-table. Mr. Hamilton had seen at a single glance that 
all was not quite right, and Caroline’s non-appearance and 
message explained it, to his extreme regret, for he had begun 
to hope and believe that his wife’s extreme solicitude, on her 
account, was beginning to decrease. 

Mrs. Hamilton had not much doubt that silence and solitude 
had so far had effect on Caroline as to subdue passion, and 
bring her to a sense of her misconduct; but that had scarcely 
power to lessen the anxiety and the pain which Caroline’s 
words had so wantonly inflicted. Had she indeed evinced any 
thing like undue partiality ? the idea alone almost brought a 
smile; fondly, and almost as her own child, as she loved her 
little niece. The very anxiety Caroline occasioned her* deep- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


191 


ened her affection ; the very control she was obliged to exercise 
in her mode of guiding her, strengthened every feeling toward 
her. She was so enwrapped in these painfully engrossing 
thoughts, in the strict examination of her own heart, that she 
was not aware the time she had appointed had passed by 
full ten minutes, till she was roused by the handle of her door 
being softly turned, and left again, as if some one had wished 
to enter, but hesitated. The very hesitation gave her hope, 
for she really did not know that the utmost penalty she could 
have inflicted on Caroline, in the moment of natural indigna¬ 
tion, would have failed in producing such an effect as the simple 
command to seek her, and define her charges against her, when 
that angry excitement had so calmed, that Caroline would have 
given worlds, if she might but have not referred to it again. 
She knew she dared not disobey, but her daring had left her 
so powerless that she had stood at her mother’s door full ten 
minutes before she could command courage sufficient to open 
it and enter. 

Mrs. Hamilton looked at her changed aspect, the bitter 
humiliation expressed in every feature, with such pity, that it 
required even more than her usual exercise of control, to retain 
the grave, and apparently unmoved tone with which she said — 

“You have had a long time in which to reflect on your 
charges against me, Caroline. I hope they are now sufficiently 
defined for me to understand and answer them. You may sit 
down, for you do not seem very capable of standing.” 

Caroline gladly obeyed, by sitting down on a low ottoman, 
some little distance from her mother, on whose neck she abso¬ 
lutely longed to throw herself and beseech forgiveness; but 
Mrs. Hamilton’s tone was not such as to give her courage to do 
so. She remained silent, burying her face in her hands. 

“ I am waiting your pleasure, Caroline ; I should have thought 
that you had had plenty of time to think during my absence. 
Of what do you accuse me ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing, nothing! mamma, dear mamma, do not speak 
to me in that tone, I cannot bear it; indeed, indeed, I am mis¬ 
erable enough already; condemn me to any punishment, the 
severest you can, I know I deserve it — but do not, do not 
speak so.” 

“ No, Caroline; were I to condemn you to any punishment, 
it would seem more like vengeance for the pain you have 
inflicted on me by your accusation of partiality and injustice 
than from the hope of producing any good end. You are no 
longer a child, who must be taught the line of duty to a parent. 


192 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


You know it now as well as I can teach it, and if you fail, 
must be answerable only to yourself. I cannot help you any 
further, than by requesting you to explain clearly the origin of 
your complaint against me. Its main ground of offence is, I 
believe, that since Ellen has become an inmate of my family 
I have treated you with more harshness and unkindness than 
I ever did before. Can you look back on the last eighteen 
months and recall one instance in which this has been the case ? 
I must have an answer, Caroline; you may now think explana¬ 
tion is not necessary, and that you meant nothing when you 
spoke, but that will not satisfy me nor you, when ill-temper re¬ 
gains ascendency. You need not refrain from answering for 
fear of wounding me. You can scarcely do that more than you 
have done already.” 

Caroline tried to speak, but she could only sob forth, that 
she could not recall one instance, in which her mother had been 
more displeased with her than her conduct merited. Acknow¬ 
ledging, but almost inarticulately, that she had sometimes fan¬ 
cied that she had remained longer cold with her than with 
Ellen, after the committal of a fault — and that — (she stop- 
ped.) 

“ Go on, Caroline.” 

“ I could not feel my faults such heavy ones as Ellen’s.” 

“ They are of equal if not greater weight than your cousin’s, 
Caroline. You have been, from your earliest infancy, the ob¬ 
ject of the most tender and devoted care to your father and 
myself. Miss Harcourt has followed out our plans; you have 
never been exposed to any temptation, not even that of casual 
bad example. Ellen, till she became mine, encountered neg¬ 
lect, harshness, all that could not fail in such a character to 
engender the faults she has. You cannot compare yourself 
with her, for, had you been situated as she was, I fear you 
would have had still heavier failings.” 

“I should never have told untruths, exclaimed Caroline 
with returning temper. 

“ Perhaps not, for some persons are so physically constituted 
that they do not know what fear is; and harshness would 
harden, not terrify and crush, as with such dispositions as 
Ellen’s. But Caroline, when temper gains dominion over you, 
as it has done to-day, do you always think and utter nothing 
but the truth ? ” 

Caroline turned from that penetrating look and burst into 
tears. Few as the words were, they seemed to flash light into 
the very inmost recesses of her heart, and tell her that in mo- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


193 


ments of uncontrolled temper, in her brooding fancies, she 
really did forfeit the truth, on adherence to which she so prided 
herself; and that there was no excuse for her in the idea that 
she did not know what she said or did —for why had religion 
and reason been so carefully implanted within her, but to enable 
her to subdue the evil temper, ere it acquired such fearful 
dominion. 

“ Perhaps you have never thought of this before, Caroline,” 
resumed Mrs. Hamilton, and her tone was not quite so cold; 
“ but think of it in future, and it may help you to conquer 
yourself. Remember, words can never be recalled, and that, 
though you may have lost such command over yourself, as 
scarcely to know the exact sense of what you say, yet those to 
whom they are addressed, or those who may have only heard 
them, must believe, and so receive, and perhaps act on false 
impressions, which no after effort will remove. Now to your 
next charge, that I treat Ellen as a reasonable being, and you 
as a child — if you have the least foundation for this supposi¬ 
tion, speak it without hesitation — whence has it arisen ? ” 

b or one minute Caroline hesitated, but then resolved she 
would atone for her fault at least by a full confession. She 
told all the wishes, the hopes Annie’s information of Lady 
Helen’s promise had imparted, and the pain it was to feel that 
her mother thought her such a child as not to speak to her on 
the subject. 

“And it you did think so, Caroline, why did you not, from 
the first moment that Annie told you of it, come to me, and tell 
me how very much you wished it? I could not, indeed, have 
granted your wishes, but your confidence would have been 
met with such indulgence as would at least have saved you 
some degree of pain. Believing, as I did, and as Lady Helen 
assured me I might with safety, that you knew nothing about 
it — would you have thought it kind or judicious in me, had I 
said, ‘ Lady Helen has persuaded me to take you to her ball, 
but I have refused her.’ I was silent to spare you pain, as, 
had you permitted yourself calmly to think, you would have 
believed. However, as appearances were, I grant that I have 
not treated you, in this instance, with the consideration that 
your age might perhaps have demanded; and from Annie not 
obeying Lady Helen’s desire, that she should not mention the 
subject to you, have failed in sparing you the pain of disap¬ 
pointment, as I had hoped. But another time, instead of brood¬ 
ing over that which seems want of consideration on my part, 
come to me at once, and spare yourself and me the pain you 
17 


194 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


have caused me to-day. I do not think you can accuse me of 
ever meeting your confidence with so much harshness as to 
check such openness on your part.” 

Caroline looked hastily up; her mother’s tone was almost as 
fond as usual, and, unable to restrain the impulse any longer, 
she started from her low seat, and kneeling down close by her, 
clung round her, passionately exclaiming — 

“ Mamma! mamma! pray, forgive me; I am so very miser¬ 
able — I cannot bear myself — I do not know when I shall be 
happy again; for even if you forgive me, I know — I know — 

I never can forgive myself.” 

“ I do not wish you to forgive yourself just yet, my dear 
child,” replied her mother, not refusing the kiss Caroline’s eyes 
so earnestly besought. “Your fault has been such an aggra¬ 
vated one, that I fear it must cause you many days of remorse, 
the most painful kind of suffering which error can bring; but 
do not try to shake it off; I would rather see you endure it, 
and not expect happiness for a few days. You know where to 
seek the only source which can bring peace and comfort, and 
you must endeavor, by earnest prayer, to strengthen yourself 
for the conflict you have so often to encounter. You have a 
very difficult task, my poor child, that I know; and, there¬ 
fore, do I so try to provide you with a guard and help.” 

“ If I could but conquer it at first,” answered Caroline, whose 
violent excitement had given way to tears of real repentance; 
“ but at first it seems almost a pleasure to me to be cross to 
everybody, and answer pettishly, and as if it were pleasanter 
to encourage disagreeable thoughts than to read or do any thing 
that would remove them. And then, when I would give any 
thing to escape from them, it seems everybody’s fault but my 
own, and I cannot.” 

“ If you accustomed yourself constantly to pray against this 
great fault, my dear child, you would find, that its very first 
approach would so startle you, that you would use every energy 
to subdue it. But I fear it is only when temper has made you 
miserable, as it has to-day, that you are quite aware of its 
enormity. You do not think the fault great enough to demand 
the watchfulness and care without which it never will be sub¬ 
dued.” 

“I am afraid I do not, indeed, mamma. I know I do not 
make it a subject of prayer, as you have so often advised me, 
except when every thing looks so black, and I am so miserable ; 
and then, I fear, I ask more to be happy again, than for for¬ 
giveness of my sin, and for grace and strength to overcome it. 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


195 


I never felt this to be the case so strongly as to-day, but your 
coldness seems to have shown me my whole self, and I never 
thought I was so wicked, and so I must be miserable.” 

Mrs. Hamilton involuntarily drew her child more closely to 
her. The humility, the bitterness of self-reproach, was so un¬ 
like Caroline’s usual haughtiness — so very much deeper than 
they had ever been before, that she hoped, in spite of her anxi¬ 
ety, and her voice audibly trembled as she answered — 

“ If you really feel this, my Caroline, you will not hesitate to 
follow my advice, and really pray and watch against this un¬ 
happy temper, even when every thing is so smooth and happy, 
that you cannot imagine why you need. Sin always gains 
ascendency by using pleasure as his covering. Do not let a 
single cross word, or momentary unkind thought, pass unnoticed; 
never cease in your petition for grace and strength, but do not 
be content with only prayer; you must use effort as well, and 
if your thoughts will be black, and you feel as if you could not 
conquer them by yourself, nor banish them even by your favorite 
employments, come to me, confess them without fear or hesita¬ 
tion to me, and let us try if we cannot conquer them together. 
Will you promise me to try this plan, Caroline ? ” 

Caroline could not reply, for every kind word her mother 
spoke, seemed to heighten self-reproach, and make her still 
more wretched. Mrs. Hamilton felt that there was no refusal 
in her silence, and continued talking to her in that same gentle 
strain a little while longer, and then rose to leave her — but 
Caroline looked so sorrowful that she hesitated. 

“No, mamma, I do not deserve that you should stay with 
me, and so deprive Emmeline and Ellen, and the boys of their 
favorite hour,” she said, though the tears started again to her 
eyes, for she felt as if it would be an indescribable comfort still 
to be alone with her mother. “I am too unhappy and too 
ashamed to join them, if I may remain away ? ” Mrs. Hamilton 
answered in the affirmative. “ I have not a thing prepared for 
to-morrow, and — and I do not — indeed, I do not mean to 
give you any more trouble with my studies. I hate myself for 
that too.” 

“ Do not attempt to study to-night, my dear Caroline; get up 
a little earlier to-morrow, to be ready for me, if you like; but 
though it will be much more painful to you to remain idle the 
remainder of this evening than to employ yourself, even with 
the most disagreeable task, I would much rather you should do 
so. Ohce let temper be quite subdued, and your heart receive 
its necessary government, and I have no fear but that you will 


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very quickly make up for lost time; and even if you did not, 
believe me, my dear child, the graces of the mind, precious as 
in generally they are considered, and as they are, still are to me 
actually nothing worth, if unaccompanied by a gentle temper 
and womanly heart. Do not shrink from the suffering which it 
will be to sit alone and think on all that has passed to-day; but 
let your remorse be accompanied by a resolution (which you 
are quite capable of not only forming, but of keeping) not to 
rest till by prayer and effort you have sought God’s blessing on 
your difficult task, and so feel strengthened for its fulfilment; 
and also for persevering in it, for you must not hope to succeed 
in subduing yourself all at once. Do this, and I shall be better 
pleased than if to-morrow morning you brought me a treble 
quantity of mental work.” 

She embraced and left her — to meditations, from whose bit¬ 
ter, though salutary pain, Caroline made no attempt to escape; 
though, had it not been for her mother’s advice, she would 
gladly have flown to her studies, and worked with double assi¬ 
duity, believing that she was, by doing so, atoning for her fault, 
instead of merely shrinking from its remembrance. It was a 
trial to join her family even for prayers; for she felt so self- 
convicted, so humbled, that she fancied every one must despise 
her; and when, after the service, Percy approached, and, with 
mock sympathy, inquired how her headache was, and if she had 
recovered her appetite, and begged her not to be ill at such a 
critical time, as he most particularly wished to go to Lady 
Helen’s ball, and he could not be so cruel, if she were not well, 
her spirit was so broken that the large tears rolled down her 
cheeks, and she turned away without uttering a single word. 

“ If you had taken the trouble to look in your sister’s face, 
Percy, you would not have spoken so unkindly,” said Mrs. 
Hamilton, more hastily than she was in the habit of interfering; 
and as Caroline came to her, she whispered some few fond 
words, that enabled her to wish her father good-night and leave 
the room, without any farther display of emotion. 

“ Do you wish your sister to dislike you, Percy ? ” she said, 
gently detaining him, as he was following Caroline. 

“ Dislike me, mother ? No! how can you think so ? ” 

“ Because you act as if you wished it; you never see her 
uncomfortable, without trying to make her more so, and is that 
kind ? How can she ever look up to and love you, while such 
is the case ? ” 

“ I only mean it for fun, mother. It is such glorious enjoy¬ 
ment to me to torment, when I see people cross and miserable 
for nothing.” 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


197 


“And in the enjoyment of your fun, my dear boy, you forget 
other people’s feelings. I must beg you, as an especial favor 
to myself, that you will do all you can to soothe rather than 
irritate Caroline, in the short time that intervenes before you 
go to London. She will have a hard struggle with herself, so 
do not you make her trial more difficult.” 

u Do you wish it, mother, dear ? you know I would refrain 
from teasing even for a whole year, it* it would please you, and 
give me the privilege of a kiss whenever I like,” he laughingly 
answered, looking up in her face so archly and yet so fondly, 
that his mother could not help smiling; promising she would 
not sentence him to any thing so terrible as not to tease for a 
whole year, as she was quite sure he would fall into his old 
propensities before a quarter of the time had expired. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

SUSPICION.-A PARTING, A DOUBLE GRIEF.-INNOCENCE 

PROVED.-WRONG DONE AND EVIL CONFIRMED 

BY DOUBT. 

Lady Helen’s ball took place; and Caroline had so con¬ 
quered herself, that she could listen to Percy’s flowing account 
of its delights with actual cheerfulness. It was so associated 
with self-reproach, that she could scarcely think of it without 
pain; but she was so convinced of her folly in permitting such 
a very little thing so to affect her temper as to cause all the 
misery she had endured, that she had resolved to punish her¬ 
self, not only by listening to Percy, but by herself inquiring 
the details. She was a girl of really a strong mind, and once 
convinced of error, once released from the fell dominion of 
temper, she did not care what pain she endured, or what diffi¬ 
culty she encountered, so that she could but convince her 
mother how truly she regretted, and tried to atone for past mis¬ 
conduct. It was very easy, as Mrs. Hamilton had told her, to 
regain lost time in her studies, but not quite so easy to check 
the cross word or unkind thought, and to break from the black 
cloud that still at times would envelop her. But she did not 
give way, constantly even making opportunities for self-denial, 
17 * 



198 


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and doing little kindnesses for Ellen, though she was too truth¬ 
ful to profess an affection which as yet she could not feel. 

Early in the following week Mr. Grahame came over to Oak- 
wood with a petition. Annie having taken cold at the party, 
had been obliged to enact the invalid, much against her inclina¬ 
tion, and so entreated her mother to invite Caroline to spend a 
few days with her-; and, to her astonishment, her cold, harsh 
father volunteered to go himself for her. Mr. Hamilton at 
once acceded; his wife hesitated; but she went at once to 
Caroline, who chanced to be reading alone in the school-room, 
for it was the time of recreation, and told her. For a moment 
her countenance was actually radiant with delight, the next it 
clouded over. 

“ You would like it very much, but you are afraid I shall 
not permit you to go — is that the meaning of your change of 
countenance ? ” asked her mother, half smiling. 

“ I am afraid of myself, mamma; for I fear I am always 
more ill-tempered and proud after any such pleasure as going 
to Moorlands would be.” 

“ Would you rather not go, then ? ” 

“I cannot say quite that, mamma; I should like it very 
much, if I could but be sure of myself afterward.” 

“ Did you ever feel such a doubt of yourself before, Caro¬ 
line, when going to stay with Annie ? ” 

“ No, mamma; I seem to have thought a great deal more the 
last few days, and not to feel half so sure of myself.” 

“ Then I think there is less danger for you, that is, of course, 
if you are willing to risk the temptation of Lady Helen’s too 
kind consideration and lavish praises, which make mine so 
very tame.” 

“Oh, mamma, pray do not say so,” interrupted Caroline, 
very eagerly. “Indeed, I would rather hear you speak and 
see you smile as you do now, than listen to all that Lady Helen 
is so kind as to say. I know I did like it very much, and that 
it did sometimes make me fancy when I came home, that you 
were almost cold. But, indeed, indeed, I hope I am learning 
to know you better.” 

“ I hope so, too, dearest. But Mr. Grahame is waiting for 
you ; and, by-the-by, begged me to ask you for some lines you 
promised to copy out for a print in Lady Helen’s album. You 
may do just as you like about going, because you are quite 
old and wise enough to decide for yourself. Ill-temper always 
brings such suffering with it, that if pleasure must recall it, 
you will be wiser not to go; but if you can resist it — if you 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


199 


think you can return to your quiet daily routine as forbearing 
and gentle and happy as you are now, go, my love, and enjoy 
yourself as much as you can.” 

“ I will try and remember all you said about prayer when 
we think we are most secure, dear mamma,” answered Caro¬ 
line, in a very earnest and somewhat lowered voice. “ I know, 
whenever I have been to Moorlands before, I have felt so 
elated, so sure I should never be in an ill-temper, so proud 
from being made so much of, that I fear I have very often re¬ 
laxed even in my daily prayers, and never thought it necessary 
to pray against ill-temper. Do you think if I watch myself, 
and still pray against it, it will save me from being cross and 
unkind on my return ? ” 

“ It will undoubtedly help you, my dear child, very consider¬ 
ably, and render your trial very much easier, but I cannot 
promise you that it will entirely prevent the inclination to feel 
pettish and unhappy. I have no doubt that in time it will 
prevent even that; but now, you know, it is very early days, 
and you have not yet forgotten the bitter pain of last week; 
still I think you may venture to go, love, and if I do see you 
happy and gentle on your return, it will do much toward con¬ 
vincing me you are striving in earnest. Make haste and get 
ready, and do not forget the poem. I will send over your 
things. Tell Lady Helen I shall expect all her family next 
Monday evening, to join Edward’s little farewell-party, and 
you can return with them.” 

With the most delighted alacrity Caroline hastened to get 
ready, and in her hurry forgot the poem till she reentered the 
school-room, which was still untenanted. 

“ What shall I do for some writing-paper ? ” she thought; 
“ the desks are all put away, and it will detain me so long to 
go up again for the keys, and the volume is too large to carry 
— oh, I will tear out a blank page from this book, it will not 
be very elegant, but I can recopy it at Moorlands.” 

And she hastily tore out a page from an exercise-book which 
lay open on the table ; not perceiving that by doing so, a fellow- 
leaf, which was written on, was loosened, and fell to the ground, 
mingling with some torn papers which had been put in a heap 
to be cleared away. She had just finished it, when Fanny 
came to tell her Mr. Grahame could not wait any longer, and 
asking if all the papers on the ground were to be removed, 
Caroline hastily answered in the affirmative, without looking at 
them, and the girl bone them off in her apron, the written leaf 
among them. 


200 


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Now it so happened that this written leaf had already occa¬ 
sioned trouble. Miss Ilarcourt had been so displeased with 
Ellen’s careless performance of a French exercise that morn¬ 
ing, that she had desired her to write it again. It was very 
difficult, and had materially shortened the time which she had 
promised to devote to Edward, who was this week released 
from his attendance on Mr. Howard, to permit him and Ellen 
to be as much together as possible. Hurried by him, she left 
her book open on the table to dry, and finding it closed on her 
return, put it away, without looking at it. The following day 
Miss Ilarcourt, of course, requested to see it, and, to Ellen’s 
utter astonishment, her exercise was not there; only the faulty 
and blotted theme, with no sign to explain its disappearance. 
Now we know Miss Ilarcourt was rather prejudiced against 
Ellen, and, as she had unhappily failed in truth more than once, 
(perhaps she was not so unjust and harsh as poor Ellen felt her 
to be,) she refused to believe her assurance that she had written 
it. No one had been in the school-room at the time to whom 
she could refer ; if Ellen had never disobeyed or deceived, of 
course her word would be sufficient, as her brother’s and 
cousins’ would. 

“ That you have failed again, both in obedience and truth, 
Ellen, I cannot for a moment doubt, and it certainly would be 
my duty to inform your aunt directly; but as I know it would 
cause her real suffering to be compelled to punish you just this 
last week that Edward will be with us for some time, I shall 
say nothing about it to her, nor inflict any penalty on you to 
attract her notice, but it is entirely for her sake I forbear. One 
so hardened in falsehood as you must be, so soon to forget her 
kind indulgence after your fault only a few weeks ago, can 
deserve nothing but harshness and contempt. I shall certainly, 
after this week, warn her not to trust too implicitly in your 
artful professions of repentance.” 

Poor Ellen felt too bewildered and too miserable even to 
cry. That she had written her exercise, she was as positive 
as that she had been told to do so; but if she had — what had 
become of it ? Harsh as Miss Harcourt seemed, appearances 
were certainly very much against her. She had not a single 
proof that she had obeyed, and her word was nothing; even 
Emmeline looked at her doubtingly, and as if she could scarcely 
even pity her. It was very little comfort to think her aunt 
was not to be told. Her own impulse was to go to her, and 
tell her at once; but how could she be believed? and Mrs. 
Hamilton’s word — “If I ever discover another untruth, you 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


201 


will compel me to adopt still severer measures, pain as it will 
be to myself,” the remembrance of all she had suffered, the 
disappointment it would be to her aunt to think all she had said 
and read to her were forgotten, when in reality she was con¬ 
stantly thinking of and trying to act on them, all checked the 
impulse, and terrified her into silence. 

Miss Harcourt was not an acute physiognomist; she could 
only read in Ellen’s face hardihood and recklessness. We 
rather think Mrs. Hamilton would have read something very 
different; but she was very much engaged with Edward, and 
if she did' think Ellen looked much more out of spirits, she 
attributed it to natural feeling at the rapid approach of the day 
of separation. For her brother’s sake, to prove to him she 
could enter into his joy, she tried very hard not to evince the 
least symptom of depression, and never to cry before him at 
least; though every night that told her another day had gone, 
and brought before her all sorts of vague feelings and fancies 
of dread, she either cried herself to sleep, or laid awake, still 
more unhappy. The suspicion attached to her seemed to 
double the severity of the trial of parting. Edward was her 
own; Edward must love her, with all her faults ; but even her 
aunt, her kind, dear, good aunt, must cease to have any affec¬ 
tion for her, if so constantly believed guilty of a sin so terrible 
as falsehood. And she seemed to love her brother still more 
than ever, every day that brought the hour of parting nearer — 
sometimes as if she could not bear the pain of not being able 
to look at his bright face, and listen to his glad laugh and dear 
voice for three, perhaps six long years. Her aunt’s gentle 
kindness seemed to increase her unhappiness, for though she 
knew she was innocent, still she felt, if Miss Harcourt had told 
Mrs. Hamilton, she could not be so caressed and cared for, and 
she was receiving that which she was believed to have forfeited. 
Miss Harcourt’s face certainly seemed to ask her as distinctly 
as words, how she could be so artful — so deceitful — as to 
permit her aunt to take such notice of her; and so she often 
shrunk away, when she most longed to sit by and listen to her. 

Edward’s spirits never sobered, except now and then, when 
he thought of leaving Mrs. Hamilton, to whom he had given 
the same love he had lavished on his mother, perhaps to a still 
greater extent, for reverence was largely mingled with it. Mr. 
Howard, too, was another whom he grieved to leave, and Mrs. 
Hamilton so trusted in these apparently strong affections and his 
good disposition, as to feel but little anxiety; merely sorrow 
that she was to lose him for a profession of danger. She did 


202 


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not know, nor did Mr. Howard, nor Edward himself, that he 
was one who would be guided more by the influence of those 
with whom he was intimately thrown, than'by any memory of 
the absent, or judgment of his own. 

Ellen’s manner on Monday evening annoyed and prejudiced 
Miss Harcourt still more ; Mrs. Greville and Mary, Lady 
Helen and all her family, bringing Caroline home with them, 
Mr. Howard, and some of Edward’s favorite companions, all 
assembled at Oakwood, and every one was determined to be 
gay and cheerful, and Edward’s voice was the merriest, and his 
laugh the happiest there; and Ellen, though her head ached 
with the effort, and the constant struggle of the preceding 
week, was quite cheerful too, and talked to Mary Greville, and 
Lilia and Cecil Grahame, and even to Mr. Howard, as Miss 
Harcourt felt she had no right to do ; and as must prove her 
to be that which she had always fancied her. Mrs. Hamilton, 
on the contrary, saw that in the very midst of a laugh, or of 
speaking, her niece’s eye would rest upon Edward, and the lip 
quite quiver, and her smile become for the moment so strained, 
that she was satisfied Ellen’s cheerfulness proceeded from no 
want of feeling; she wondered, indeed, at so much control at 
such an early age, but she loved her for it, notwithstanding. 
Once only Ellen was nearly conquered. Mary had begged her 
to sing a little Hindoo air, of which she was particularly fond, 
and Edward, hearing the request, said eagerly — 

“ Do sing it, dear Ellen; I am quite as fond of it as Mary 
is, for it seems to make me think of India and poor mamma, 
and it will be. such a long time before I hear it again.” 

She had never in her whole life felt so disinclined to sing, 
so as if it were quite impossible — as if she must cry if she 
did; but Edward would think it so unkind if she refused, for 
she did not know herself why his very words should have in¬ 
creased the difficulty, and what reasons could she give him ? 
Mary went and asked Mrs. Hamilton to accompany her; and 
Ellen did her very best, but her voice would tremble, and just 
before the end of the second verse it failed entirely; but still 
she was glad she had tried, for on Mrs. Hamilton saying, very 
kindly, and in a voice that only she and Mary could hear, “ I 
was half afraid you would not succeed to-night, my dear Ellen; 
but you were quite right to try,” Mary seemed to understand 
at once why it had been so difficult for her to oblige her, and 
to be quite sorry she had pressed it so much, and Edward had 
thanked her, and told her he should sing it in idea very often. 
She tried to be merry again, but she could not succeed as 


HOME INFLUENCE. 203 

before, and so she kept as near her aunt as she could, all the 
remainder of the evening, as if she were only safe there. 

Edward, too, had a hard battle with himself, as one by one 
his favorite companions took leave of him with a hearty shake 
of the hand, and eager, but in some, half-choked wishes, for 
his health and prosperity ; and when all had gone, and Mr. 
Howard, who had remained for prayers, took him in his arms, 
and solemnly prayed God to bless him, and save him from 
danger and temptation, and permit him to return to his family, 
improved in all things that would make him an affectionate 
guardian to his orphan sister, and repay all the love and care 
of his aunt and uncle, it was a desperate effort that prevented 
him from sobbing like a child; but he had his midshipman’s 
uniform on for the first time, and he was quite resolved he 
would not disgrace it; therefore he only returned Mr. Howard’s 
embrace very warmly, and ran out of the room. But when 
his aunt went into his room an hour afterward, it appeared as 
if he had put off his pride and his uniform together, for, though 
he was fast asleep, his pillow was quite wet with tears. 

The~next morning was a very sad one, though Percy and 
his father did all they could to make it cheerful: (we ought to 
have said before that Percy and Herbert were both going with 
Mr. Hamilton and Edward.) No one liked the idea of losing 
Edward for so long a time. He had made himself a favorite 
with all, even with every one of the servants, who, when the 
carriage was ready at eleven o’clock, thronged into the hall to 
take a last look at him. He was so altered, that he had that 
morning, actually of his own accord, shaken hands with every 
one of them who had ever done any thing for him, especially 
Ellis and Morris, and Robert, to whom he had given a very 
handsome present, and thanked him for all his attention. 

He kept up very manfully till he came to his aunt, whose 
emotion, as she held him in a close embrace, was so unusually 
visible, and for the moment he seemed so to love her, that the 
idea of the sea lost half its delight, and he felt as if he could 
almost have liked to remain with her. But Percy’s joyous 
voice — 

“ Come, Master Edward, I thought you were a sailor, not a 
schoolboy; off with you; you will not give me time or room 
for one kiss from mamma before we go,” — roused him, and he 
tried to laugh in the midst of his tears, gave Ellen another 
kiss, and ran into the carriage, where he was quickly followed 
by his uncle and cousins, and in a very few minutes Oakwood, 
dear, happy Oakwood, as his whole heart felt it at that moment, 
was hidden from his sight. 


204 


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Ellen remained by the window, looking after the carriage, 
long after it was impossible to see or hear it, very pale, and her 
eyes very heavy, but not in tears ; and as her aunt went to her, 
and put her arm round her, and began talking to her very 
cheerfully of all Edward would have to write to her about, and 
how soon they might hear from him, and that Ellen should an¬ 
swer him as often and as fully as she liked, and that she would 
not even ask to see her letters to him, or all his to her, as they 
might have many little affectionate things to say to each other, 
that they might not care about any one else seeing, and she 
would trust them both — Ellen seemed as if one pain was 
soothed, and if indeed she heard often from him, she might bear 
his departure. But there was still the other source of unhap¬ 
piness, recalled every time she met Miss Harcourt’s cold, sus¬ 
picious look, which had not changed even then. Still she tried 
to join her cousins, and get her work, for there were no studies 
that morning, and so some little time passed, by Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton’s exertions, almost cheerfully; but then Ellen left the room 
to get something she wanted, and, in seeking her own, passed 
Edward’s room, the door of which stood half open. She could 
not resist entering, and every thing spoke of him so vividly, 
and yet seemed so to tell her he had gone, really gone, and she 
was quite alone, that all the pain came back again worse than 
ever, and she laid her head on his pillow, and her long-checked 
tears flowed with almost passionate violence. 

“ My dear Ellen, I have been looking for you everywhere,” 
said her aunt’s kind voice, full an hour afterward ; “ Emmeline 
went into your room and could not find you, and I could not 
imagine what had become of you. It was not wise of you to 
come here just this morning, love. You have been so brave, 
so unselfish all this week, that I must not let you give way now. 
Try and think only that Edward will be happier as a sailor 
than he would be remaining with you; and though I know you 
must miss him very, very painfully, you will be able to bear it 
better. Poor Alice Seaton, of whom you have heard me speak, 
has no such comfort; her brother could not bear the idea of a 
sea life, and is scarcely strong enough for it; and yet, poor fel¬ 
low, it is the only opening his uncle has for him, and his poor 
sister has not only that pain to bear — for you can fancy how 
dreadful it would be, if Edward had left us for a life in which 
he thought he should be miserable — but is obliged to leave the 
aunt she loves, as much, I think, as you love me, Ellen, and go 
as a teacher in a school, to bear her accumulated sorrow quite 
alone. Sad as your trial is, you have still many things to bless 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


205 


God for, dearest, as I am sure you will acknowledge, if, when 
the pain of the present moment has subsided, you think of Alice, 
and try to put yourself in her place.” 

“ It is not only parting from Edward,” answered, Ellen try¬ 
ing to check her tears, but clasping her arms still closer round 
her aunt as if dreading that her own words should send her 
from her. 

“ Not only parting from Edward, Ellen, love! what is it 
then ? tell me,” replied Mrs. Hamilton, surprised and almost 
alarmed. But Ellen could not go on, much as she wished it, 
for her momentary courage had deserted her, and she could 
* only cry more bitterly than before. “ Have you done any thing 
wrong, Ellen ? and have you forgotten my promise ? ” inquired 
her aunt, after waiting several minutes, and speaking very sor- 
rowfully. 

u Miss Harcourt thinks I have, aunt; but indeed, indeed, I 
have not; I have not been so very wicked as to tell another 
falsehood. I know no one can believe me, but I would rather 
you should know it, even if — if you punish me again.” 

“ You must try to be more calm, my dear Ellen, and tell me 
clearly what is causing you so much additional suffering; for I 
cannot quite understand you. I certainly shall not punish you, 
unless quite convinced you have failed in truth again, which I 
do not think you have. Tell me exactly what it is, and look at 
me while you are speaking.” 

Ellen tried to obey, but her grief had gained such an ascend¬ 
ency, that it was very difficult. Mrs. Hamilton looked very 
thoughtful when she ceased, for she really weCs more perplexed 
than she allowed Ellen to perceive; and the poor child fancy¬ 
ing her silence could only mean disbelief and condemnation, 
remained quiet and trembling by her side. 

u I promised you that I would not doubt you, Ellen, and I 
will not now, though appearances are so strong against you,” 
she said, after several minutes’ thought. “ Come with me to the 
school-room, and show me your exercise-book; I may find some 
clew to explain this mystery.” 

Ellen thought that was quite impossible ; but, inexpressibly 
comforted by her aunt’s trust, she went with her directly. 

u Ellen has been telling me that you have been very much 
displeased with her, my dear Lucy,” Mrs. Hamilton said, directly 
she entered, addressing Miss Harcourt, who was sitting read¬ 
ing with Caroline and Emmeline, “ and certainly with great 
apparent justice; but she is so unhappy about it, that I can 
scarcely believe that she has forgotten all which passed between 


206 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


us a short time ago, and I am going, therefore, with your per¬ 
mission, to try if I cannot discover something that may throw a 
light on the subject.” 

“ I am afraid that scarcely will be possible,” replied Miss 
Harcourt; “ however, I am glad she has had the candor to tell 
you, instead of continuing to receive your notice, as she has 
done the last week.” Ellen had brought her book while Miss 
Harcourt was speaking, and Mrs. Hamilton attentively exa¬ 
mined it.” 

“ Did you not begin one like this the same day, Caroline ? ” 

“Yes, mamma; don’t you remember we were obliged to 
send to Harris for them ? as the parcel with the stationery did % 
not come from Exeter as soon as we expected. And we no¬ 
ticed how much thinner they were, though they were the same 
sized books.” 

u And did I not hear you say something about their having 
the same number of leaves, and therefore it must have been 
only the quality of the paper which made the difference ? ” 

“ What a memory you have, mamma,” answered Caroline, 
smiling. “ I did not think you were taking the least notice of 
us, but I do remember saying so now, and, indeed, I very often 
wish the quality had been the same, for our writing looks 
horrid.” 

“ Do you happen to remember the number of leaves they 
contained, and if they were both alike ? ” 

“ I know they had both the same number, and I think it was 
two-and-twenty, but I can tell you in a moment.” And with 
her usual quickness of movement, Caroline unlocked her desk, 
drew forth her book, and ran over the leaves. 

“ I am right — two-and-twenty.” 

“ And you are quite sure they had both the same number ? ” 

“ Perfectly certain, mamma.” 

“ Then, by some incomprehensible means, two leaves have 
disappeared from Ellen’s — here are only twenty. Have you 
ever torn a leaf out, Ellen ? ” 

“ No, aunt, indeed I have not.” 

“ When did Miss Harcourt tell you to write this missing ex¬ 
ercise ? ” 

“ Last Monday week — I mean yesterday week.” 

“ Where did you write it, and what did you do with your 
book afterward ? ” 

“ I wrote it at this table, aunt: I was so sorry I had to do 
it, when Edward depended so much on my going out with him, 
that I thought it would save time not to get my desk ; and as 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


207 


soon as it was done, I left it open to dry. When I came home 
it was closed, and I put it away without looking at it, and the 
next morning the exercise was not there.” 

“ Who was in this room after you left it ? by-the-byj it was 
the morning you went to Lady Helen’s, Caroline; did you no¬ 
tice Ellen’s book open, as she said ? Why, what is the matter, 
my dear ? ” she added, observing that Caroline looked as if 
some sudden light had flashed upon her, and then, really 
grieved. 

“ I am so very, very sorry, mamma; I do believe it has been 
all my haste and carelessness that has caused Ellen all this un- 
- happiness. I was in such a hurry to copy the poem for Lady 
Helen, that I tore a blank leaf out of an open book on the 
table, without thinking whose it was. In my haste the book 
fell to the ground, I picked it up to write on it, but never no¬ 
ticed if the fellow-leaf fell out, which it must have done, and 
no doubt Fanny carried it away with some other torn papers, 
which she asked me if she were to destroy. I am more sorry 
than I can tell you, Ellen; pray believe that I did not do it 
purposely.” 

“I am sure she will, if it be only for the comfort of our 
knowing the truth,” said Mrs. Hamilton, truly relieved, not 
only from the explanation, but perceiving Caroline’s voluntarily 
offered kiss was willingly and heartily returned by Ellen. It 
was almost the first she had ever seen exchanged between 
them. 

“ I must believe you, dear Caroline, for you never say what 
you do not mean,” said Ellen, earnestly; “ but I do so wisli 
Miss Harcourt could see my exercise; she would quite believe 
me then.” 

“ And we should all be more satisfied,” replied Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton, perceiving in a moment that Miss Harcourt still doubted, 
and ringing the bell, she desired the footman to send Fanny to 

her. 

“ Do you remember taking some torn papers from this room 
the morning you went to tell Miss Hamilton that Mr. Grahame 
was waiting ? ” she asked. 

“ Yes, madam.” 

“ And were they all torn up in small pieces ? ” 

“ No, madam; there was one like the page out of a book, 
which made me ask Miss Hamilton if they were all to be de¬ 
stroyed. It was such a nice clean piece, only being written on 
one side, that I wrapped up some lace in it — Mrs. Ellis hav¬ 
ing only half an hour before scolded me for not keeping it more 
carefully.” 


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“ Bring me the leaf, my good girl, and Miss Ellen will give 
you a still better piece for the purpose,” replied her mistress, 
quite unable to suppress a smile, and Ellen hastily took out a 
large sheet of writing paper, and the moment Fanny returned 
(she seemed gone an age) gave it to her, and seized her own, 
which she placed in her aunt’s hand, without being able to 
speak a single word. 

“ I think that is the very theme, and certainly Ellen’s writ¬ 
ing, my dear, Lucy; we can have no more doubt now,” said 
Mrs. Hamilton, the moment Fanny had left the room, delight¬ 
ed with the exchange, and drawing Ellen close to her, for the 
poor child could really scarcely stand. 

“ I have done you injustice, Ellen, and I beg your pardon,” 
replied Miss Harcourt directly, and Mrs. Hamilton would have 
been better pleased had she stopped there, but she could not 
help adding, “ You know I should never have doubted you, if 
you had not so often forfeited truth.” 

Ellen’s first impulse had been to go to her, but her last 
words caused her to bury her face on her aunt’s shoulder. 

“ I really think, Ellen, you ought to thank Ellis for giving 
Fanny a scolding, as it has done you such excellent service,” 
resumed Mrs. Hamilton, playfully; “ and what fee are you 
going to give me for taking upon myself to prove your inno¬ 
cence in open court ? I think myself so very clever, that I 
shall tell Percy I am a better lawyer without study, than he 
can hope to be with. You don’t seem to be very capable of 
doing any thing but kissing me now, and so I will not be very 
exacting. You have cried yourself almost ill, and so must bear 
the penalty. Go and lie down in my dressing-room for an hour 
or two; Emmeline, go with your cousin, and see what a kind, 
affectionate nurse you can be till I come. It is never too early 
to practise such a complete woman’s office.” 

Emmeline, quite proud of the charge, and more grieved than 
she very well knew how to express, till she was quite alone 
with Ellen, that she, too, had suspected and been cold to her 
the last week, left the room with her cousin. Caroline seemed 
to hesitate for a moment, but she was quite certain by her 
mother’s face that she wished to speak with Miss Harcourt, and 
so, without being told, took up her book, and went into the 
library. 

“And now, Lucy, I am going to ask you a personal favor,” 
began Mrs. Hamilton, the moment they were alone. 

“ That I will try and not judge Ellen so harshly again,” was 
her instant reply; “ you have every right to desire it, my dear 


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209 


friend, not to ask it as a favor; I was too prejudiced and too 
hasty ; but your own dear children are so truthful, so open, that 
I fear they have quite spoiled me for the necessary patience 
and forbearance with others.” 

“ You have not quite guessed it, Lucy. Appearances were 
so very strongly against that poor child, that 1 am not at all 
astonished you should have disbelieved her assertion. In the 
moment of irritation, it is not unlikely I should have done so 
myself; but the favor I am going to ask you, is merely that 
you will try and never show that you doubt her word, or refer 
to her past failures. I am quite convinced that untruth is not 
Ellen’s natural disposition, but that it has been caused by the 
same circumstances which have made her such a painfully 
timid, too humble character. If, with all her efforts to conquer 
herself, she still finds her word doubted, and the past brought 
forward, she never will be able to succeed. Examine as strictly 
and carefully as you please, and as I am sure she will desire, 
if necessary — as she did to-day — but oblige me, and never 
doubt her. If she finds we never do, it will raise her self-es¬ 
teem, and give her a still further incentive to adhere as strictly 
to the truth, as she sees we believe she does. I am certain the 
habit of falsehood has often been strengthened by the injudi¬ 
cious and cruel references to one or two childish failures. If I 
am never to be believed, what is the use of trying to tell the 
truth ? is the very natural question; and the present pain of 
carefulness being greater than the visible amount of evil, the 
habit is confirmed. Will you oblige me ? ” 

“ Of course I will, dearest Mrs. Hamilton ; how can you talk 
so ! Have you not a right to desire what you think proper, in 
my guidance of your children, instead of so appealing to me as 
an equal ? ” 

“And are you not? My dear Lucy, have I ever, in act or 
word, considered you otherwise ? In the very intrusting my 
children to your care, do I not prove that I must think you 
so ? Have you lived with me all these years, and not yet dis¬ 
covered that I have some few notions peculiar perhaps to my¬ 
self, but that one among them is, that we can never consider 
too much, or be too grateful to those invaluable friends who 
help us in the training of our children ? ” 

“I have lived long enough with you to know that there 
never was, never can be, any woman like you, either as wife, 
mother, mistress, or friend! ” exclaimed Miss Harcourt, with 
most unusual fervor. 

“ You did not know your own mother, dearest Lucy, as how 
18 * 


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I wish you had, or you would not think so. Every firm, truth¬ 
ful, estimable quality I may possess, under God’s blessing, I 
owe to her. As a young child, before she came to me, and 
some years afterward, I was more like Ellen than either of my 
own darlings ; and that perhaps explains the secret of my love 
for, and forbearance with her.” 

“ Like Ellen! ” repeated Miss Harcourt, much surprised ; 
“ forgive me, but, indeed, I can scarcely believe it.” 

“ It is truth, notwithstanding ; my poor father’s great prefer¬ 
ence for Eleanor, when we were children, her very superior 
beauty and quickness, threw me back into myself; and I am 
quite certain if it had not been for your excellent mother, who 
came to live with us when I was only seven, my character 
would have suffered as much from neglect on the one side, and 
too painful humility on my own, as Ellen’s has done. I can 
understand her feelings of loneliness, misappreciation, shrinking 
into herself, better even than she does herself.” 

“ But your affection and kindness ought to have altered her 
character by this time.” 

“ Hardly — eighteen months is not long enough to remove 
the painful impressions and influences of eleven sorrowful 
years. Besides, I scarcely know all these influences ; I fear 
sometimes that she has endured more than I am aware of. So 
you must think charitably of my fancy, dearest Lucy,” she 
added, smiling, “ and help me to make Ellen as much like me 
as a woman, as I believe she is to me as a child; and to do so, 
try and think a little, a very little, more kindly and hopefully 
of her than you do.” 

“ I really do wish you were not quite so penetrating, dearest 
Mrs. Hamilton ; there is no hiding a single feeling or fancy 
from you,” answered Miss Harcourt, slightly confused, but 
laughing at the same time. “ What with your memory, and 
your quick observation, and your determined notice of little 
things, you really are a most dangerous person to live with; 
and if you were not more kind, and indulgent, and true than 
anybody else, we should all be frightened to come near you.” 

“ I am glad I have some saving qualities,” replied Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton, laughing also ; “ it would be rather hard to be isolated 
because I can read other people’s thoughts. However, we 
have entered into a compact,” she continued, rather more seri¬ 
ously; “you will never show that you doubt Ellen, and in any 
difficult matter, come at once to me,” and Miss Harcourt will¬ 
ingly assented. 

The day passed much more happily than the morning could 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


211 


have anticipated. Emmeline’s nursing was so affectionate and 
successful, that Ellen was quite able to join them at dinner, 
and her aunt had selected such a very interesting story to read 
aloud, in which one character was a young sailor, that the 
hours seemed to fly; and then they had a long talk about poor 
Alice Seaton and her brother, whether it would be possible for 
Mr. Hamilton to place young Seaton in a situation that he 
liked better, and that his health was more fitted for. Ellen 
said she should like to see and know Alice so much, for her 
trial must be such a very hard one, that her aunt promised her 
she should in the midsummer holidays, for Alice should then 
come and spend a week with them. It seemed as if not to be 
able to wish Edward good-night, and kiss him, brought back 
some of the pain again ; but she found that thinking about poor 
Alice, and fancying how miserable she must be, if she loved 
her aunt as dearly as she did Mrs. Hamilton, to be obliged to 
part from her as well as her brother, and live at a school, made 
her pain seem less absorbing; as if to help Alice would do 
more toward curing it than any thing. And though, of course, 
every day, for a little while, she seemed to miss Edward more 
and more, still her aunt’s affection and her own efforts, prepared 
her to see her uncle and cousins return, and listen to all they 
could tell her about him, without any increase of pain. 


PART III. 


SIN AND SUFFERING. 


CHAPTER I. 

ADVANCE AND RETROSPECT. 

Our readers must imagine that two years and four months 
have elapsed since our last visit to the inmates of Oakwood. 
It was the first week in March that Edward Fortescue (only 
wanting ten days for the completion of his fourteenth year) 
quitted a home which was happier than any he had ever known, 
to enter the world as a sailor; and it is the 7 th of June, two 
years later, the day on which Ellen Fortescue completes her 
fifteenth year, that we recommence our narrative. 

Over this interval, however, much as we are anxious to pro¬ 
ceed, we must take a brief glance, clearly to understand the 
aspect of the Oakwood home affairs, which, from the increasing 
age of the younger members, had undergone some slight change. 
The greatest and most keenly felt was the departure of Percy 
and Herbert for college, the October twelvemonth after Edward 
had gone; the house seemed actually desolate without them. 
Percy’s wild jokes and inexhaustible spirits, and Herbert’s* 
quiet, unobtrusive kindness, much as they had always been 
truly appreciated by their home circle, still scarcely seemed to 
have been fully felt till the young men were gone; and the old 
house actually seemed enwrapped in a silence, which it re¬ 
quired very determined effort on the part of all who remained 
in the least degree to dispel. 

Our readers who are mothers, and earnest ones, will easily 
understand the anxious tremblings of Mrs. Hamilton’s heart, 
when she parted from her boys for the world: for such, to 
spirits fresh, boyish, unsophisticated, as they still were, Oxford 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


213 


could not fail to be. For Herbert, indeed, she had neither 
fear nor doubt: no sneer, no temptation, no bad example, would 
affect him, in whom every passing year seemed to increase and 
deepen those exalted feelings which, in his earliest childhood, 
had “ less in them of earth than heaven.” His piety was so 
real, his faith so fervent, his affections so concentrated in his 
home and in one other individual, his love and pursuit of study 
so ardent and unceasing, his one aim, to become worthy in 
heart and mind to serve God as his minister, so ever present, 
that he was effectually guarded even from the world. Percy 
had none of these feelings to the same extent, save his ardent 
love for home and its inmates — his mother, above all. He 
did, indeed, give every promise that the principles so carefully 
instilled had taken firm root, and would guide his conduct in 
the world; but Mrs. Hamilton was too humble-minded — too 
convinced that every human effort is imperfect, without the 
sustaining and vitalizing grace of God, to rest in security, as 
many might have done, that because she had so worked, so 
prayed, she must succeed. She was hopeful, indeed, very 
hopeful — how could she be otherwise when she beheld his 
deep, though silent, reverence for sacred things — his constant 
and increasing respect and love for his father — his devoted 
affection for herself— his attachment to Herbert, which seemed 
so strangely yet so beautifully to combine almost reverence for 
his superior mind and holier spirit, with the caressing protect¬ 
iveness of an elder for a younger — a stronger for a weaker? 
There was much in all this to banish anxiety altogether, but 
not from such a heart as Mrs. Hamilton’s, whose very multi¬ 
plicity of blessings made her often tremble, and led her to the 
footstool of her God, with a piety as humble, as constant, as 
fervent, as many believe is the fruit of adversity alone. 

Caroline had sufficiently improved as greatly to decrease 
solicitude on her account: though there was still a want of 
sufficient humility, a too great proneness to trust implicitly in 
her own strength, an inclination to prejudice, and a love of 
admiration, which all made Mrs. Hamilton fear would expose 
her to some personal sorrow ere they were entirely overcome. 
To produce eternal good, she might not murmur at temporal 
suffering; but her fond heart, though it could anticipate it 
calmly for herself, so shrunk from it, as touching her child, that 
the nearer approached the period of Caroline’s introduction to 
the gay world, the more painfully anxious she became, and the 
more gladly would she have retained her in the retirement of 
Oakwood, where all her better and higher qualities alone had 


214 


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play. But she knew this could not be; and she could only 
trust that her anxiety would be proved as groundless with Ca¬ 
roline, as every letter from Oxford proved it to be with Percy, 
and endeavor to avert it by never wavering in her watchful and 
guiding love. 

Emmeline, at fifteen, was just the same sportive, happy, 
innocent child as she had been at twelve. Her feelings were, 
indeed, still deeper, her imagination more vivid, her religion 
more fervid. To her every thing was touched with poetry — it 
mattered not how dull and commonplace it might seem to other 
people; but Mrs. Hamilton’s judicious care had so taught that 
Truth alone was poetry and beauty — the Ideal only lovable 
when its basis was the Real — that she was neither romantic nor 
visionary. Keen as her sensibilities were, even over a work 
of fiction, they prompted the deed and act of kindness, not the 
tear alone. For miles round her father’s large domain she 
was known, loved, so felt as a guardian spirit, that the very 
sound of her step'seemed to promise joy. She actually seemed 
to live for others — making their pleasures hers; and, withal, 
so joyous, especially in her own home and at Greville Manor, 
that even anxiety seemed exorcised when she was near. Be¬ 
fore strangers, indeed, she would be as shy as a young fawn; 
though even then natural kindliness of heart prompted such 
kindness of word and manner, as always to excite the wish to 
see her again. 

Edward, in the two years and a quarter which he had been 
away, had only once occasioned anxiety. Two or three months 
after he had sailed, he wrote home in the highest terms of a 
certain Gilbert Harding, one of the senior midshipmen of his 
ship, from whom he had received kindness upon kindness; and 
who', being six or seven years older than himself, he jestingly 
wrote to his aunt and uncle, must certainly be the very best 
friend he could have chosen, as he was much too old to lead 
him into mischief. Why he (Harding) had taken such a fancy 
to him, Edward could not tell; but he was so excessively kind, 
so taught him his duty, and smoothed all the difficulties and dis¬ 
agreeables which, he owned, had at first seemed overwhelming, 
that he never could be grateful enough. He added, that, 
though not a general favorite with his immediate messmates, he 
was very highly esteemed by Sir Edward Manly and his other 
superior officers, and that the former had much commended him 
for his kindness to the youngest boy on board, which Edward 
was. It was very easy to perceive that young Fortescue’s sus¬ 
ceptible affections had all been not only attracted, but already 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


215 


riveted by this new friend. All the young party of Oakwood 
rejoiced at it; Mrs. Hamilton would have done so also, had she 
not perceived an anxious expression on her husband’s face, 
which alarmed her. He did not, however, make any remark 
tell he had spoken to Mr. Howard, and then imparted to his 
wife alone (not choosing to create suspicion in the open hearts 
of his children) that this Gilbert Harding, though very young at 
the time, had been one of the principal actors in the affair which 
had caused Mr. Howard to dismiss his pupils, as we related in 
a former page; that his very youth, for he could scarcely have 
been more than eleven or twelve, and determined hardihood, so 
marked natural depravity, that Mr. Howard had had less hope 
for him than for any of the others. This opinion had been 
borne out by his after conduct at home; but the affair had been 
successfully hushed up by his family; and by immense interest 
he had been permitted to enter the navy, where, it was said, his 
youthful errors had been so redeemed, and his courage and 
conduct altogether had so won him applause, that no farther 
fears were entertained for him. Mr. Howard alone retained 
his opinion, that the disposition was naturally bad, and doubted 
the internal response to the seeming outward good; and he was 
grieved and anxious beyond measure, when he heard that he 
was not only on board the same ship as Edward, but already 
his favorite companion and most trusted friend. His anxiety, 
of course, extended itself to Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton to such a 
degree, that at the first moment they would gladly have endea¬ 
vored to exchange his ship; but this would have seemed very 
strange to Sir Edward Manly, who was one of Mr. Hamilton’s 
most valued friends. He had, in fact, actually delayed Edward’s 
becoming a midshipman till Sir Edward could take him in his 
own ship, and now to place him elsewhere was really impossible; 
and, after all, though he might be removed from Harding’s in¬ 
fluence, how could his anxious guardians know all with whom 
he might be thrown ? They were obliged to content themselves 
with writing earnestly and affectionately to Edward; and, pain¬ 
ful as it was, to throw a doubt and shade over such youthful 
confidence and affection, implored him not to trust too im¬ 
plicitly in Harding; that his character had not always been free 
from stain; that he (Edward) was still so young and so sus¬ 
ceptible, he might find that he had imbibed principles, and been 
tempted to wrong almost unconsciously, and suffer from its 
effects when too late to escape. They wrote as affectionately 
and indulgently as they could — Mr. Howard, as well as his 
aunt and uncle; but still they felt that it certainly did appear 


216 


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cruel to warn a young, warm heart to break off the first friend¬ 
ship it had formed; especially as he beheld that friend approved 
of by his captain, and looked up to by the crew. And that 
Edward’s reply was somewhat cold, though he did promise cau¬ 
tion, and assure them he had not so forgotten the influences 
and principles of Oakwood as to allow any one to lead him into 
error, did not surprise them. He never referred to Harding 
again, except sometimes casually to mention his companion¬ 
ship, or some act which had won him approval; and they really 
hoped their letters had had at least the effect of putting him 
on his guard. Sir Edward Manly’s own reply to Mr. Hamil¬ 
ton’s anxious appeal to him, however, succeeded in quieting 
their fears ; he assured them he had seen nothing in Harding’s 
conduct, since he had been at sea, to render him an unfit com¬ 
panion for any boy; that he had heard of some boyish faults, 
but it was rather hard he was to suffer from them as a man ; 
and he assured his friends that he would keep a strict look-out 
after young Fortescue, and the first appearance of a change in 
a character which, young as he was, he could not help loving, 
should be inquired into, and the friendship ended by sending 
Harding to some other ship. So wrote Sir Edward Manly, 
with the fullest possible intention to perform; afcid Edward’s 
anxious friends were happy, more especially as letter after let; 
ter brought praises of the young sailor from captain, officers, 
and crew, and his own epistles, though brief, were affectionate 
and satisfactory. 

It was happy for Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, and Mr. Howard, 
too, that they were ignorant of the multiplicity of great and 
little things which could not fail to engross the mind' of Sir 
Edward Manly, who was not only captain of the Prince Wil¬ 
liam, a gallant seventy-four, but commander of the little flotilla 
which accompanied him, or they could not have rested so secure. 
Happy for them, too, during those years of separation, that they 
were not perfectly acquainted with Edward’s real weakness of 
character, or of the fearful extent of mischief which the influ¬ 
ences of his first twelve years had engendered. Had he re¬ 
mained at Oakwood till nineteen or twenty, it is probable they 
would have been insensibly conquered, and the impressions of 
good, which he had appeared so readily to receive, really taken 
root and guided his after life, but eighteen months could not do 
this, as Mrs. Hamilton would have felt, had she known all the 
effect of her sister’s ill-judged partiality and indulgence; but 
this, as we have already mentioned, was concealed from her by 
the bright, lovable, winning qualities, which alone were upper- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


217 


most. Our readers, in fact, know more of Edward (if tliey 
have at all thought of his conduct in so frequently allowing his 
sister to suffer for him) than his aunt, penetrative as she was ; 
and, therefore, in the events we shall have occasion to relate, 
we trust that Mrs. Hamilton will not appear an inconsistent 
character, inasmuch that one in general so successfully observ¬ 
ant, should fail in penetration when most needed. 

Edward’s life at Oakwood had been so very happy, its plea¬ 
sures and indulgences so innocent, so numerous, that he did not 
himself know his liability to temptation, from the excessive love 
of pleasure which his mother’s indiscreet indulgence had origin¬ 
ally infused. The control which his uncle and Mr. Howard 
exercised over him had been so very gentle and forbearing, 
1hat he had scarcely ever felt the inclination to exert self-will, 
and when it so chanced that he had, Ellen had covered his 
fault, or borne its penalty for him. He thought he had guided 
himself, when, in fact, he was guided ; but this could no longer 
be the case when one of the little world which thronged a first- 
rate man-of-war. Outward actions were, indeed, under control; 
but what captain, the most earnest, most able in the world, 
could look into and guide the hearts of all those committed to 
his care ? And almost the first action of Edward’s unbiased 
will was indignantly to tear into shreds, and scatter to the winds 
and the waves, those affectionate and warning letters, and cling 
the more closely to, rest the more confidingly on, Harding, for 
the wrong that he thought he had done him, by allowing his eye 
even to rest for a moment on such base, unfounded aspersions 
on his name. 

When Mrs. Hamilton told Ellen that her letters to her 
brother, and his to her, should never be subjected to any scru¬ 
tiny but their own, she acted on a principle which many parents 
and guardians would consider as high-flown and romantic, and 
which she herself had most painful reason to regret — the 
effects, at least, but not the principle itself, for that was based 
on too refined a feeling to waver, even though she suffered from 
it. She could not bear, nor could her husband, the system 
which prevailed in some families of their acquaintance, that 
their children could neither receive nor write letters to each 
other, or their intimate friends, without being shown to their 
seniors. As for opening and reading a letter directed to one 
of them, before its possessor saw it, as they had seen done, it 
was, in their estimation, as much dishonor and as mean, as if 
such a thing had been done to an adult. Perfect confidence 
in their home they had indeed instilled, and that confidence 
19 


218 


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was never withheld. There was a degree of suspicion attached 
to a demand always to see what a child had written or received, 
from which Mrs. Hamilton’s pure mind actually shrunk in 
loathing. In the many months the Grahame family passed in 
London, Annie and Caroline corresponded without the least 
restraint; no doubt many would pronounce Mrs. Hamilton' 
very unwise, knowing Annie so well, and trembling for Caro¬ 
line as she did; but, as she told Miss Harcourt, she had some 
notions peculiar to herself, (they always had the sanction and 
sympathy of her husband, however,) and this was one of them. 
She was always pleased and interested in all that her children 
read to her, either from their own epistles or those they re¬ 
ceived, and if they wished it, read them herself, but she never 
asked to do so, and the consequence was, that the most perfect 
confidence was given. 

When Ellen and Edward parted, they were both so young, 
that Mr. Hamilton had hesitated as to whether his wife was 
quite justified in the perfect trust Avith which she treated them, 
and whether it would not be wiser to overlook their correspond¬ 
ence ; but Mrs. Hamilton so argued that their very youth was 
their safeguard, that they Avere all in all to each other, and as 
such she wished them to feel they Avere bound by even a closer 
and a fonder tie than that of brother and sister under other cir¬ 
cumstances, so won over her husband that he yielded; and from 
the long extracts that Ellen would read of EdAvard’s letters to 
the family in general, and of her OAvn to her aunt, he was quite 
satisfied as to the wisdom of his wife’s judgment. 

For full a year after EdAvard’s departure, Ellen’s conduct 
and general improvement had given her aunt nothing but plea¬ 
sure ; even Miss Harcourt’s and Caroline’s prejudice Avas nearly 
removed, though, at times, the fancy Avould steal over both that 
she was not exactly what she seemed, and that that which was 
hidden Avas not exactly that which Mrs. Hamilton believed it ; 
and this fancy, strengthened by a certain indefinable yet felt 
change in Ellen, commencing about thirteen months after she 
had parted from her brother. Mrs. Hamilton herself, for some 
time strove against belief, but at length she could no longer 
conceal from herself that Ellen was becoming reserved again, 
and fearful, at times almost shrinking, and sad, as in her child¬ 
hood. The openness, and almost light-heartedness, which for one 
brief year had so characterized her, seemed completely but so 
insensibly to have gone, that Mrs. Hamilton could not satisfy 
herself as to the time of the commencement, or reason of the 
change. Her temper, too, became fitful, and altogether her 


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219 


aunt’s anxiety and bewilderment as to her real character re¬ 
turned in full force. Once, when gently questioned as to why 
her temper was so altered, Ellen confessed with tears, that she 
knew it was, but she could not help it, she believed she was 
not well; and Mrs. Hamilton called in Mr. Maitland, who said 
that she really was in a highly nervous state, and required care 
and quietness, and the less notice that was taken of her mo¬ 
mentary irritability or depression the better. Little did the 
worthy man imagine how his young patent blessed him for 
these words; giving a reason for and so-allowing the trepidation 
which paled her cheek, parched her lips, and made her hand 
so tremble, when she received a letter from her brother, to pass 
unnoticed. 

But change in manner was not all; almost every second or 
third month Ellen’s allowance of pocket-money (which was un¬ 
usually liberal, as. Mrs. Hamilton wished to accustom her girls, 
from an early age, to purchase some few articles of dress for 
themselves, and so learn the value of money) most strangely 
and mysteriously disappeared. Ellen either could not or would 
not give any account of it; and, of course, it not only exposed 
her to her aunt’s most serious displeasure, but inexpressibly 
heightened not only Mrs. Hamilton’s bewilderment and anxiety, 
but Miss Harcourt’s and Caroline’s unspoken prejudice. From 
the time of Edward’s departure, Ellen had never been dis¬ 
covered in or suspected of either uttering or acting an untruth; 
but her silence, her apparent determined ignorance of, or reso¬ 
lution not to confess the cause of the incomprehensible disap¬ 
pearance of her allowance, naturally compelled Mrs. Hamilton 
to revert to the propensity of her childhood, and fear that truth¬ 
fulness was again deserting her. Her displeasure lasting, of 
course, the longer from Ellen’s want of openness, and the air 
of what almost appeared to her anxious yet still affectionate 
aunt like sullen defiance (in reality, it was almost despair,) 
when spoken to, caused a painful degree of estrangement be¬ 
tween them, always, however, giving place to Mrs. Hamilton’s 
usual caressing manner, the moment Ellen seemed really re¬ 
pentant, and her month’s expenditure could be properly ex¬ 
plained. 

For six or eight months before the day on which we recom¬ 
mence our narrative, there had been, however, nothing to com¬ 
plain of in Ellen, except still that unnatural reserve and fre¬ 
quent depression, as if dreading something she knew not what, 
which, as every other part of her conduct was satisfactory, Mrs. 
Hamilton tried to comfort herself was physical alone. No refer- 


220 


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ence to the past was ever made: her manner to her niece 
became the same as usual; but she could not feel secure as to 
her character, and, what was most painful, there were times 
when she was compelled to doubt even Ellen’s affection for 
herself, a thing she had never had the slightest cause to do even 
when she was a little inanimate child. 

But very few changes had taken place in the Greville and 
Grahame families. Mrs. Greville’s trial continued in unmiti¬ 
gated, if not hightened bitterness: the example, the companion¬ 
ship of his father had appeared to have blighted every good 
seed which she had strenuously endeavored to plant in the 
bosom of her son. At sixteen he was already an accomplished 
man of the world, in its most painful sense: he had his own 
companions, his own haunts ; scarcely ever visiting his home, 
for a reason which, could his poor mother have known it, would 
have given her some slight gleam of comfort. He could not 
associate either with her or his sister, without feeling a sort of 
loathing of himself, a longing to be to them as Percy and Her¬ 
bert Hamilton were at Oakwood; and not having the moral 
courage sufficient to break from the control of his father, and 
the exciting pleasures in which that control initiated him, he 
shrunk more and more from the only spot in which better feel¬ 
ings were so awakened within him as to give him pain. To 
deaden this unacknowledged remorse, his manner was rude 
and unfeeling, so that his very visits, though inexpressibly 
longed for by his mother, brought only increase of grief. 

Mrs. Greville seemed herself so inured to suffering, that she 
bore up against it without any visible failing of health; strug¬ 
gling against its enervating effects, more, perhaps, than she 
was aware of herself, for the sake of one treasure still granted 
her — her own almost angel Mary, — who, she knew, without 
her love and constant cheerfulness, must sink beneath such a 
constant aggravated trial. Yet that very love brought increase 
of anxiety from more than one cause. As yet there was no 
change in their manner of living, but Mrs. Greville knew that, 
from the excesses of her husband and son, there very soon 
must be. Ruiiij poverty, all its fearful ills, stood before her in 
perspective, and how could Mary’s fragile frame and gentle 
spirit bear up against them ? Again and again the question 
pressed upon her — Did Herbert Hamilton indeed love her 
child, as every passing year seemed’to confirm? and if he did, 
would — could his parents consent to his union with the child 
of such a father, the sister of such a brother ? There were 
always long messages to Mary in Herbert’s letters to his mother, 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


221 


which Mrs. Hamilton not only delivered herself, but sometimes 
even put the whole letter into Mary’s hand, and at last laugh¬ 
ingly said, she really thought they had much better write to 
each other, as then she should chance to get a letter all to her¬ 
self, not merely be the medium of a communication between 
them; and Mary, though she did slightly blush, which she was 
in the habit of doing for scarcely any thing, seemed to think it 
so perfectly natural, that she merely said, if Herbert had time 
to write to her, she should like it very much, and would cer¬ 
tainly answer him. 

“ My dear Emmeline, what are you about ? ” was Mrs. Gre- 
ville’s anxious appeal, the moment they were alone. 

“ Giving pleasure to two young folks, of whom I am most 
excessively fond,” was Mrs. Hamilton’s laughing reply. “ Don’t 
look so terrified, my dear Jessie. They love each other as boy 
and girl now, and if the love should deepen into that of man 
and woman, why, all I can say is — I would rather have your 
Mary for my Herbert than any one else I know.” 

“ She is not only my Mary! ” answered the poor mother, 
with such a quivering of eye and lip, that it checked Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton’s joyousness at once. 

“ She is your Mary, in all that can make such a character as 
my Herbert happy,” was her instant reply, with a pressure of 
Mrs. Greville’s hand, that said far more than her words. “I 
am not one of those who like to make matches in anticipation, 
for man’s best laid schemes are so often overthrown by the 
most trifling but unforeseen chances, that display a much wiser 
providence than our greatest wisdom, that I should consider it 
almost sinful so to do; but never let a thought of suffering 
cross your mind, dearest Jessie, as to what my husband’s and 
my own answer will be, if our Herbert should indeed ever wish 
to choose your Mary as his wife, and, certainly a most important 
addition, should she wish it too. Our best plan now is to let 
them follow their own inclinations regarding correspondence. 
We can, I am sure, trust them both, for what can be a greater 
proof of my boy’s perfect confidence in my sympathy with his 
feelings toward her, than to make me his messenger, as he has 
done, and as he, no doubt, will continue to do, even if he write. 
I have not the smallest doubt, that he will inclose me his letters 
to her unsealed, and I rather think your Mary will send me 
her replies in the same unreserved manner.” 

And she was right, Nor, we think, did the purity and inno¬ 
cence of those letters, so intensely interesting to each other, 
give place to any other style, even when they chanced to dis- 


222 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


cover that Mrs. Hamilton was utterly ignorant of their con¬ 
tents, except that which they chose to read or impart to her 
themselves. 

But even this assurance on the part of one so loved and 
trusted as Mrs. Hamilton, could not entirely remove Mrs. Gre- 
ville’s vague anticipations of evil. Mr. Greville always shun¬ 
ned, and declared he hated the Hamilton family; but as he 
seemed to entertain the same feeling toward herself and her 
poor Mary, she tried to comfort herself by the idea that he 
would never trouble his head about his daughter; or be glad 
to get her out of his way, especially if she married well. Still 
anxiety for the future would press upon her; only calmed by 
her firm, unchanging faith in that gracious, ever-watchful Pro¬ 
vidence, who, if in spite of her heavy troubles she still tried to 
trust and serve, would order all things for the best; and it was 
this, this faith alone, which so supported her, as to permit her 
to make her child’s home and heart almost as happy as if her 
path had all been smooth. 

In the Grahame family a change had taken place, in Master 
Cecil’s being sent to Eton some time before his father had in¬ 
tended ; but so many cases of Lady Helen’s faulty indolence 
and ruinous indulgence had come under his notice, that he felt 
to remove the boy from her influence must be accomplished at 
any cost. Cecil was quite delighted, but his mother was so in¬ 
dignant, that she overcame her habitual awe of her husband 
sufficiently to vow that she would not live so far from her son, 
and if he must go to school, she must leave Moorlands. Gra¬ 
hame, with equal positiveness, declared that he would not give 
up a home endeared to him so long, nor so entirely break off 
his companionship with his dearest friends. A very stormy 
dialogue of course took place, and ended by both parties being 
more resolved to entertain their own opinion. The interposi¬ 
tion of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, however, obtained some con¬ 
cession on Grahame’s part, and he promised that if Lady 
Helen would make Moorlands her home from the middle of 
July till the end of October, November and December should 
be spent in the vicinity of Eton, and she should then have six 
months for London and its attractions. This concession brought 
back all Lady Helen’s smiles, and charmed Annie, though it 
was a source of real regret to Caroline, who could not help 
feeling a little pained at her friend’s small concern at this long 
separation from her. But still she loved her ; and, as Annie 
wrote frequently, and when she was at Moorlands never tired 
of her society, (the eight months of absence giving her so much 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


223 


interesting matter to impart,) Caroline was not only satisfied, 
but insensible to the utter want of sympathy which Annie 
manifested in her pursuits, her pleasures. Mrs. Hamilton often 
wished that Caroline had chosen one more deserving of her 
friendship, but she trusted that time and experience would 
teach her Annie’s real character, and so did not feel any anxiety 
on that score. 

There was only one member in Grahame’s family, that Mr. 
and Mrs. Hamilton hoped might bring joy and comfort to their 
friend, and that was his little Lilia. She was five years younger 
than Annie, and being much less attractive, seemed almost for¬ 
gotten, and so was spared the dangerous ordeal of flattery and 
indulgence to which Annie had been subject; and from being 
more violent and less agreeable than Cecil, was not so frequent¬ 
ly spoiled by her mother. They feared the poor child would 
have much to endure from her own temper, Annie’s overbear¬ 
ing insolence, and Lady Helen’s culpable indolence; but Mrs. 
Hamilton hoped, when she resided part of the year in London, 
as she felt she would very soon be called upon to do, to be en¬ 
abled to rouse Grahame’s attention toward his youngest child, 
and prevail on him to relax in his sternness toward her; and 
by taking notice of her continually herself, instil such feelings 
in her as would attract her toward her father, and so increase 
the happiness of both. Every visit of the Grahame family to 
Moorlands, she resolved to study Lilia well, and try all she 
could to make one in reality so estimable, as her husband’s 
friend, happy, in one child at least. 

It had been Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton’s intention to go to Lon¬ 
don the January after Caroline was seventeen, and give her the 
advantage of finishing masters, and a partial introduction to the 
world, by having the best society at home, before she launched 
into all its exciting pleasures; to return to Oak wood in July or 
August, and revisit the metropolis the following February or 
March, for the season, when, as she would be eighteen and a 
half, she should be fully introduced. Caroline, of course, antici¬ 
pated this period with intense delight. She was quite satisfied 
that in her first visit she should study as much as, if not more 
than before; and content and thankful that her mother would 
allow her to enter so far into society, as always to join dinner 
or evening parties at home, and go to some of her most intimate 
friends, when their coteries were very small and friendly; and, 
another eagerly anticipated delight, sometimes go to the opera 
and the best concerts, and visit all the galleries of art. 

To poor Emmeline these anticipations gave no pleasure what- 


224 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


ever; she hated the very thought of leaving Oakwood, firmly 
convinced that not the most highly intellectual, nor the most 
delightful social enjoyment in London, could equal the pure 
delights of Devonshire and home. Ellen seemed too engrossed 
with her own thoughts to evince a feeling either way, much to 
her aunt’s regret, as her constant quietness and seeming deter¬ 
mined repression of her sentiments, rendered her character still 
more difficult to read. 

But a heavy disappointment was preparing for Caroline, in 
the compelled postponement of her bright anticipations; to un¬ 
derstand the causes of which, we must glance back on an event 
in the Hamilton family, which had occurred some years before 
its present head was born. In the early part of the reign of 
George the Third, Arthur Hamilton, the grandfather of our 
friend of the same name, had been sent by government to the 
coast of Denmark: his estimable character so won him the re¬ 
gard of the reigning sovereign, Christian VII., that, on his de¬ 
parture, the royal wish was expressed for his speedy return. 
On his voyage home, he was wrecked off the Feroe Islands, and 
rescued from danger and death by the strenuous exertions of 
the islanders, who entertained him and the crew with the utmost 
hospitality, till their ship was again seaworthy. During his in¬ 
voluntary detention, Mr. Hamilton became deeply interested in 
the Feroese, a people living, it seemed, in the midst of desola¬ 
tion, a cluster of small rocky islets, divided by some hundred 
miles of stormy sea from their fellows. He made the tour of 
the islands, and found almost al] their inhabitants possessing the 
same characteristics as those of Samboe, the island off which he 
had been wrecked; kind, hospitable, honest, temperate, inclined 
to natural piety, but so perfectly indifferent to the various pri¬ 
vations and annoyances of their lot, as to make no effort toward 
removing them. Travelling either by land or sea was so dan¬ 
gerous and difficult, that in some parishes the clergyman could 
only perform service twice a year,* or once every one, two, or 
three months. The islands in which the clergyman resided 
were, Mr. Hamilton observed, in a much higher state of civili¬ 
zation and morality than Samboe and some others, and an 
earnest desire took possession of him, to do some real service 
for those who had saved him from danger and treated him so 
hospitably. He very speedly acquired their language, which 
gave him still more influence. He found, also, that if their 


* For this account of Feroe and the Feroese the author is indebted to a 
History of the Islands, by a Resident.” 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


225 


ancient customs and traditions were left undisturbed, they were 
very easily led, and this discovery strengthened his purpose. — 
His departure was universally regretted; and his promise to 
return imagined too great a privilege to be believed. 

As soon as his political duties in England permitted, Mr. 
Hamilton revisited Denmark, and was received with such cor¬ 
diality as to encourage him to make his petition for the improve¬ 
ment of his majesty’s poor subjects of Samboe. It was granted 
directly; the little island so far made over to him, that he was 
at liberty to introduce and erect whatever he pleased within it; 
and Mr. Hamilton, all eagerness for the perfection of his plans, 
returned with speed to England; obtained the valuable aid of 
a poor though worthy clergyman, who, with his wife, volunta¬ 
rily offered to make Samboe their home, and assist their bene¬ 
factor (for such Mr. Hamilton had long been) to the very best 
of their ability. A strong-built vessel was easily procured, and 
a favorable voyage soon transported them to Feroe. The de¬ 
light of the Samboese at beholding their former guest again, 
prepossessed Mr. and Mrs. Wilson in their favor, and Mr. Ha¬ 
milton, before his six months’ sojourn with them was over, be¬ 
held the island in a fair way of religious and moral improve¬ 
ment — Schools were formed and masters appointed — houses 
were made more comfortable — women and young children 
more cared for, and employments found, and sufficiently reward¬ 
ed to encourage persevering labor. Three or four times Mr. 
Hamilton visited the island again before his death, and each 
time he had more reason to be satisfied with the effect of his 
schemes. Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were perfectly happy. Their 
son was united to the pretty and excellent daughter of one of 
the Danish clergymen, and a young family was blooming round 
them, so that there seemed a fair promise of the ministry of 
Samboe continuing long in charge of the same family. 

Mr. Hamilton, on his death-bed, exacted a promise from his 
son that he would not permit the island to fall back into its old 
habits ; but that, if required, he would visit it himself. The 
visit was not required, but Percy Hamilton, (the father of the 
present possessor of Oakwood,) from respect to his father’s 
memory, made a voyage to Samboe on the demise of the elder 
Wilson. He found every thing flourishing and happy; Fre¬ 
deric Wilson had been received as their pastor and head, with 
as much joy as their regret for his father would permit; and 
Mr. Hamilton returned to England, satisfied with himself, and 
inexpressibly touched by the veneration still entertained in that 
distant island for his father. The same promise was demanded 


226 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


by him from his son, and Arthur Hamilton had visited Feroe 
directly after the loss of his parent, and before his engagement 
with Miss Manvers. He found it in the same satisfactory con¬ 
dition as his predecessors had done, and the letters he regularly 
received confirmed it; but for the last year and a half he had 
received no tidings. Frederic Wilson, he knew, was dead, but 
his last account had told him his eldest son, who had been edu¬ 
cated in Denmark, had been gladly received by the simple peo¬ 
ple, and promised fair to be as much loved, and do the same 
good as his father and grandfather. The silence then was in¬ 
comprehensible, and Mr. Hamilton had resolved, if another 
year passed without intelligence, it would be a positive duty to 
visit it himself. 


CHAPTER H. 

A LETTER, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES. 

It *was the seventh of June, and one of those glorious morn¬ 
ings, when nature looks lovelier than ever. The windows of 
the breakfast-room were thrown widely open, and never did the 
superb trees of Oakwood Park look richer or display a greater 
variety of green. The flower-garden, on part of which the 
breakfast-room opened, was actually dazzling with its profusion 
of brilliant flowers, on which the sun looked down so gloriously ; 
a smooth lawn, whose green was a perfect emerald, stretched 
down from the parterre, till it was lost in woody openings, 
which disclosed the winding river, that, lying as a lake on one 
side, appeared to sweep round some exquisite scenery on the 
opposite side, and form another lake, about a mile further. It 
was Emmeline’s favorite view, and she always declared, that 
it so varied its aspects of loveliness, she was sure it never 
looked two mornings exactly alike, and so long would she 
stand and admire, that her mother often threatened to send 
her her breakfast in her own room, where the view, though 
picturesque, would not so completely turn her attention from 
the dull realities of life. There were some letters on the table 
this morning, so she had a longer time to drink in poetry than 
usual. 

“ Who can offer Ellen a more precious birthday-gift than 
mine ? ” exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, playfully holding up a letter, 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


227 


as her niece entered. “ I wonder if Edward remembered how 
near his sister was to fifteen, and so wrote on the chance of 
your receiving it on the day itself? ” 

“ Why, Ellen, what a queer effect pleasure has on you ! I 
always notice you turn quite pale whenever Edward’s letters 
are given to you,” interposed Emmeline, looking at her cousin, 
and laughing. “ I am sure, the very hurry I am in to open 
Percy’s and Herbert’s, must give me a color, and you are as 
deliberate as if you did not care about it. I do wish you would 
not be so cold and quiet.” 

“ One giddy brain is quite enough in a house,” rejoined her 
father, in the same mirthful tone, and looking up from his letter, 
he called Ellen to him, and kissed her. “ I forgot the day of 
the month, my little girl, but I am not too late, I hope, to say, 
God bless you, and wish that every year may pass more hap¬ 
pily, more usefully, and more prepared for eternity than the 
last! ” 

“ I do not think you have forgotten it, my dear uncle,” re¬ 
plied Ellen, gratefully (she had not yet opened her brother’s 
letter) ; “ for my aunt says, I am to thank you as well as her 
for this beautiful birth-day gift,” and she displayed an elegant 
little gold watch; “ indeed, I do not know how to thank you 
for all your kindness ! ” she added, so earnestly that tears came 
to her eyes. 

“ I will say, as I have heard your aunt'often say — by trying 
to be a little more lively and unreserved, my dear Ellen; that 
would prove our kindness and affection made you happy, better 
than any thing; but I am not going to lecture you on your 
birthday, and with a letter from Edward in your hand,” he 
continued smiling. “ Open it, my dear, I want to know its 
date; I rather think my friend Manly’s must be written later.” 

“Nothing in it for me, Ellen?” asked her aunt. “What a 
lazy boy he has grown ! ” 

“An inclosure for you, Ellen; why, that is as queer as your 
paleness! ” said Emmeline. 

“ Do let your cousin’s paleness alone,” interposed Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton, gayly. “I really cannot perceive she has any less 
color than usual, and as for the inclosure, Edward often has 
something to add at the last moment, and no room to insert it, 
and so there is nothing remarkable in his using another half 
sheet.” 

“ Emmeline always creates wonders out of shadows,” said 
Caroline, dryly. 

“And you never see any thing but dull, coarse, heavy reali- 


228 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


ties,” laughed her sister in reply. “ Come, Ellen, tell us some¬ 
thing of this idle brother of yours, who promised to write to 
me every packet, and never does.” 

Ellen read nearly the whole letter aloud, and it was unusually 
entertaining, for the ship had been cruising about the last 
month, and Edward described the various scenes and new places 
he had visited more lengthily than usual. He anticipated with 
great glee an engagement with some desperate pirates, whose 
track they were pursuing. 

“Does he mention an engagement?” inquired Mr. Hamilton. 

“ No, uncle; he concludes quite abruptly, saying they have 
just piped all hands, and he must be off. The direction does 
not seem his writing.” 

“ Nor is it; Sir Edward sealed, directed, and put it up for 
him in his own to me. They had piped all hands, as he calls 
it, because the pirate ship was in sight, and an engagement did 
take place.” 

“And Edward — oh, uncle, is he hurt? I am sure, he is, by 
your face,” exclaimed Ellen, trembling; and all the little circle 
looked alarmed. 

“ Then my face is a deceiver,” replied Mr. Hamilton, quite 
cheerfully. “ He only received a slight flesh wound in his 
right arm, which prevented his using it to complete his letter, 
* —and I rather think he would have willingly been hurt still more, 
tcTreceive such praises as Sir Edward lavishes on him. Listen 
to what he says — ‘ Not a boy or man on board distinguished 
himself more than your nephew: in fact, I am only astonished 
he escaped as he did, for those pirates are desperate fighters, 
and when we boarded them, Fortescue was in the midst of them, 
fighting like a young lion. Courage and gallantry are such 
dazzling qualities in a young lad, that we think more of them 
perhaps than we ought, but I cannot say too much for your 
nephew; I have not a lad more devoted to his duty. I was 
glad to show him my approbation by giving him some days’ 
liberty, when we were off New York; but I have since told 
him the air of land certainly did not agree with him, for he has 
looked paler and thinner ever since. He is growing very fast; 
and altogether, if I have occasion to send another prize schooner 
home, I think it not improbable I shall nominate him as one 
of the officers, that he may have the benefit of the healtful 
breezes of Old England, to bring back his full strength.’ There, 
Ellen, I think that is a still better birthday-present than even 
Edward’s own letter. I am as proud of my nephew as Sir 
Edward is.” 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


229 


“And do you think he really will come ? ” asked Ellen, try¬ 
ing to conquer her emotion. 

“We will hope it, dearest,” replied her aunt, kindly. “But 
do not think too much about it, even if Sir Edward be not able 
to do as he says. His own ship will be coming home in a year 
or two, and you owned to me yourself this morning, it did not 
seem as long as it really is, since our dear sailor left us ; so the 
remaining time will soon pass. Finish your breakfast, and go, 
love, and enjoy his letter again to yourself.” 

And Ellen gladly obeyed ; for it was from no imaginary cause 
that the receipt of Edward’s letters so often paled her cheek, and 
parched her lip with terror. She knew that concerning him 
which none else but Harding did; and even when those letters 
imparted nothing but that which she could read to her family, 
the dread was quite enough to banish any thing like the elastic 
happiness, natural to her age, and called for by the kindness 
of those she loved. His letter this time, however, had not a 
word to call for that sickness of the heart, with which she had 
received it; and she read it again and again, with a thankful¬ 
ness too intense for words. 

“ You dropped this, Ellen dear,” said the voice of her cousin 
Emmeline at her door, ten minutes after she left the breakfast- 
room. “It was under the table, and I do not think you have 
read it; it is the inclosure I was so amused at.” 

“ I dare say it is a letter written for some other opportunity, 
and forgotten to be sent; it is only a few words,” replied Ellen, 
as she looked at its length, not at its meaning, for the fearful 
lesson of quiet unconcern when the heart is bursting had been 
too early learned. 

“ Then I will leave you in peace: by-the-by, cousin mine, 
papa told me to tell you, that as the Prince William is soon 
going to cruise again, your answer to Edward must be ready 
this day week, the latest, and mamma says, if you like to write 
part of it now that all Edward’s little love-speeches are fresh in 
your mind, you can do so; it is your birthday, and you may 
spend it as you like. How I shall enjoy making a lion of my 
cousin, when he comes ! ” — and away tripped the happy girl, 
singing some wild snatch of an old ballad about sailors. 

Ellen shut the door, secured it, and with a lip and cheek 
colorless as her robe, an eye strained and bloodshot, read the 
following words — few indeed ! 

“ Ellen ! I am again in that villain’s power, and for a sum 
so trifling, that it maddens me to think I cannot discharge it 
without again appealing to you. I had resolved never to play 
20 


230 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


again — and again some demon lured me to those Hells ! If I 
do not pay him by my next receipts from home, he will expose 
me, and what then — disgrace, expulsion, death / for I will not 
survive it; there are easy means of self-destruction to a sailor, 
and who shall know but that he is accidentally drowned ? You 
promised me to save part of every allowance, in case I needed 
it. If you would indeed save me, send me five-and-thirty 
pounds. Ellen ! by some means, I must have it; but breathe 
it to my uncle or aunt — for if she knows it, he will— and you 
will never see me more ! ” 

For one long hour Ellen never moved. Her brain felt scorch¬ 
ed, her limbs utterly powerless. Every word seemed to write 
itself in letters of fire on her heart and brain, till she could 
almost have screamed, from the Hread agony; and then came 
the heavy weight, so often felt before, but never crushing every 
thought and energy as now, the seeming utter impossibility to 
comply with that fearfully urged demand. He called it a sum 
so trifling, and she felt a hundred, ay, a thousand pounds were 
not more difficult to obtain. She had saved, indeed, denying 
herself every little indulgence, every personal gratification, 
spending only what she was obliged, and yet compelled to let 
her aunt believe she had properly expended all, that she might 
have the means of sending him money when he demanded it, 
without exposing herself to doubt and displeasure as before ; 
but in the eight months since his last call, she had only been 
enabled to put by fifteen pounds, not half the sum he needed. 
Flow was she to get the rest ? and she had so buoyed herself 
with the fond hope, that even if he did write for help again, 
she could send it to him so easily — and now — her mind 
seemed actually to reel beneath the intense agony of these des¬ 
perate words. She was too young, too believing, and too terror- 
stricken to doubt for a moment the alternative he placed before 
her, with a vividness, a desperation, of which he was uncon¬ 
scious himself. Those words spoken, would have been terrible, 
almost awful in one so young — though a brief interval would 
have sufficiently calmed both the hearer and the speaker, to 
satisfy that they were but words, and that self-destruction is 
never breathed, if really intended : but written , the writer at a 
distance, imagination at liberty to heighten every terror, every 
reality; their reader, a young loving girl, utterly ignorant of 
the world’s ways and temptations, and the many errors to which 
youth is subject, but from which manhood may spring up un¬ 
sullied ; and so believing, almost crushed by the belief, that her 
brother, the only one, her own — respected, beloved, as he was 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


231 


said to be — had yet committed such faults, as would hurl him 
from his present position to the lowest depth of degradation, 
for what else could tempt him, to swear not to survive it ? Was 
it marvel, that poor Ellen was only conscious that she must save 
linn ? Again did her dying mother stand before her — again 
did her well-remembered voice beseech her to save him, her 
darling, beautiful Edward, from disgrace and punishment — 
reiterate that her word was pledged, and she must do it, and if 
she suffered — had she not done so from infancy — and what 
was her happiness to his ? Define why it should be of less 
moment, indeed, she could not. It was the fatal influences of 
her childhood working alone. 

How that day passed, Ellen never knew. She had been too 
long accustomed to control, to betray her internal suffering, (ter¬ 
ror for Edward seemed to endow her with additional self com¬ 
mand,) except by a deadly*paleness, which even her aunt at 
length remarked. It was quite evening, and the party were all 
scattered, when Mrs. Hamilton discovered Ellen sitting in one 
of the deep recesses of the windows; her work in her lap, her 
hands clasped tightly together, and her eyes fixed on the beau¬ 
tiful scenery of the park, but not seeing a single object. 

“ My dear Ellen, I am going to scold you, so prepare,” was 
her aunt’s lively address, as she approached and stood by her. 
“You need not start so guiltily and look so very terrified, but 
confess that you are thinking about Edward, and worrying your¬ 
self that he is not quite so strong as he was, and magnifying his' 
wound, till you fancy it something very dreadful, when, I dare 
say, if the truth were told, he himself is quite proud of it; come 
confess, and I will only give you a very little lecture, for your 
excessive silliness.” 

Ellen looked up in her face ; that kind voice, that affectionate 
smile, that caressing, constantly forgiving love, would they again 
all be forfeited, again give way to coldness, loss of confidence, 
heightened displeasure ? How indeed she was to act, she knew 
not; she only knew there must be concealment, the very antici¬ 
pation of which, seemed too terrible to bear, and she burst into 
an agony of tears. 

“ Why, Ellen — my dear child — you cannot be well, to let 
either the accounts of your brother, or my threatened scolding, 
so affect you, and on your birthday, too ! Why, all the old 
women would say it was such a bad omen, that you would be 
unhappy all the year round. Come, this will never do, I must 
lecture, in earnest, if you do not try to conquer this unusual 
weakness. We have much more to be thankful for, in Sir 


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Edward’s account of our dear sailor, than to cry about; he 
might have been seriously wounded or maimed, and what would 
you have felt then ? I wonder if he will find as much change in 
you as we shall in him. If you are not quite strong and quite 
well, and quite happy to greet him when he comes, I shall 
consider my care insulted, and punish you accordingly. Still 
no smile. What is the matter, dearest? Are you really not 
well again ? ” 

Ellen made a desperate effort, conquered her tears, and tried 
to converse cheerfully. It was absolute agony to hear Edward’s 
name, but she nerved herself to do so, to acknowledge she was 
thinking of him; and that it was very silly to worry about such 
a slight wound: and when Mrs. Hamilton proposed that they 
should walk over to Greville Manor, and tell the good news to 
Mrs. Greville and Mary, acquiesced with apparent pleasure. 

“Ah do, mamma: you have not*asked me, but I shall go not¬ 
withstanding,” exclaimed Emmeline, springing through the open 
window, with her usual airy step. 

“ Why Emmeline, I thought you were going to the village 
with your sister ! ” 

“ No; she and Miss Harcourt were talking much too soberly 
to suit me this evening. Then I went to tease papa, but he let 
me do just what I pleased, being too engrossed with some dis¬ 
agreeable farmers, to notice me; so in despair, I came here. 
Why, Ellen, you look as if this were any day but what it is ; 
unless you cry because you are getting old, which I am very 
often inclined to do — only think, I am sixteen next December 
— how dreadful! I do wish my birthday were in June.” 

“ And what difference would that make ? ” 

“ A great deal, mamma; only look how lovely every thing 
is now; nature is quite juvenile, and has dressed herself in so 
many colors, and seems to promise so many more beauties, that, 
whether we will or no, we must feel gay and young; but in 
December, though it is very delightful in the house, it is so 
drear and withered without, that if born in such a season, one 
must feel withered too.” 

“ When do you intend to speak in prose, Emmeline ? ” 

“ Never, if I can help it, mamma; but I must learn the lesson 
before I go to London, I suppose; that horrid London! that 
is one reason why I regret the years going so fast; I know I 
shall leave all my happiness here.” 

“ You will be more ungrateful, than I believe you, if you do,” 
replied her mother. So pray banish such foolish fancies -as fast 
as you can; for if you encourage them, I shall certainly sup- 


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pose that it is only Oakwood you love; and that neither your 
lather nor myself, nor any member of your family, has any 
part in your affections, for we shall be with you, wherever you 
are.” 

“Dear mamma, I spoke at random, forgive me,” replied Em¬ 
meline, instantly self-reproached. “I am indeed the giddy 
brain papa calls me; but you cannot tell how I love this dear 
old home.” 

“ Indeed I think I can, my dear chijd, loving it as I do my¬ 
self; but come, we shall have no time for our visit, if we do not 
go at once.” 

Days passed, and were each followed by such sleepless fever¬ 
ish nights, that Ellen felt it almost a miracle that she could so 
seem, so act, as to excite no notice. The image of her dying 
mother never left her, night or day, mingled with the horrid 
scene of her father’s death, and Edward disgraced, expelled, 
and seeking death by his own hand. There was only one plan 
that seemed in the least feasible, and that was to send to him, 
or sell herself the watch she had received on her birthday, and 
if that was not enough, some few trinkets, which had been her 
mother’s and which the last six months her aunt had given into 
her own care. She ventured casually to inquire if there were 
any opportunity of sending a parcel to Edward; but the answer 
was in the negative, and increased her difficulty. The only 
person she dared even to think of so far intrusting with her 
deep distress and anxiety for money, but not its cause, was 
widow Langford, the mother of Robert (the young gentlemen’s 
attendant, whom we have had occasion more than once to men¬ 
tion, and the former nurse of all Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton’s child¬ 
ren.) She occupied a cottage on the outskirts of the park, and 
was not only a favorite with all the young party, Ellen included, 
(for she generally came to nurse her in her many illnesses,) but 
was regarded with the greatest confidence and affection by Mr. 
and Mrs. Hamilton themselves. They had endeavored to re¬ 
turn her unwavering fidelity and active service, by taking her 
only child Robert into their family, when only seven; placing 
him under the immediate charge of Morris, the steward, and of 
course living in the same house, of-'his mother also; and when 
fifteen, making him personal attendant to Percy and Herbert, 
who were then about ten and eleven years old. An older and 
more experienced domestic had, however, accompanied the 
young men to college, and Robert remained employed in many 
little confidential services for his master at Oakwood. 

To widow Langford, Ellen tried to resolve that she would 
20 * 


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apply, but her fearful state of mental agony had not marked the 
lapse of time, or had caused her to forget that her letter must 
be ready in a week. The party were all going a delightful ex¬ 
cursion, and to drink tea at Greville Manor, so that they would 
not be home till quite late; but in the morning, Ellen, though 
she had dressed for going out, appeared to have e very symptom 
of such a violent headache, that her aunt advised her remaining 
quietly at home, and she assented with eagerness, refusing every 
offer of companionship, saying if the pain went off, she could 
quite amuse herself, and if it continued, quietness and Ellis’s 
nursing were the best things for her. 

“ But give me your letter before we go out, Ellen, I am only 
waiting for it, to close mine to Sir Edward. Why, my dear, 
have you forgotten I told you it must be ready by to-day?” her 
uncle added; surprised at her exclamation that she had not 
finished it. “It must be done and sent to T—, before four to¬ 
day, so I do hope your head will allow you to write, for Ed¬ 
ward will be wofully disappointed if there be not a line from 
you, especially as, from his ship cruising about, it may be se¬ 
veral weeks before he can hear again. I must leave my letter 
with you, to inclose Edward’s and seal up, and pray see that it 
goes in time.” 

Ellen tried to promise that it should, but her tongue actually 
clove to the roof of her mouth; but all the party dispersing at 
the moment, her silence was unnoticed. Mr. Hamilton gave 
her his letter, and in half an hour afterward she was alone. 
She sat for nearly an hour in her own room, with her desk be¬ 
fore her, her face buried in her hands, and her whole frame 
shaking as with an ague. 

“It must be,” she said at length, and unlocking a drawer, 
took thence a small cross, and one or two other trinkets, put 
them up, and taking off her watch, looked at it with such an 
expression of suffering, that it seemed as if she could not go on, 
carefully folded it up with the other trinkets, and murmuring, 
“ If nurse Langdon will but take these, and lend me the twenty 
pounds till she can dispose of them, I may save him yet— and 
if she betray me — if she tell my aunt afterward, at least only 
I shall suffer; they will not suspect him. But oh — to lose — 
to be doubted, hated, which I must be at last. Oh, mother! 
mother! Why may I not tell my aunt ? she would not disgrace 
him.” And again she crouched down, cowed by that fearful 
struggle to the very earth. After a few minutes, it passed, and 
deliberately putting on her bonnet and shawl, she took up her 
trinkets, and set off to the widow’s cottage, her limbs so trem- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


235 


bling, that she knew not how she should accomplish even that 
short walk. 

The wind was unusually high, although the day was other¬ 
wise lovely, and she was scarcely able to stand against the 
strong breeze, especially as every breath seemed to increase 
the pain in her temples ; but she persisted. The nearest path 
lay through a thick shrubbery, almost a wood, which the family 
never used, and, in fact, the younger members were prohibited 
from taking, but secrecy and haste were all which at that mo¬ 
ment entered Ellen’s mind. She felt so exhausted by the wind 
blowing the branches and leaves noisily and confusedly around, 
that on reaching a sort of grassy glade, more open than her 
previous path, she sat down a minute on a mossy stone. The 
wind blew some withered sticks and leaves toward her, and, 
among them, two or three soiled pieces of thin paper, stained 
with damp, one of which she raised mechanically, and started 
up with a wild cry, and seized the others almost unconsciously. 
She pressed her hands over her eyes, and her lips moved in 
the utterance of thanksgiving. “ Saved ! — Edward and my¬ 
self, too ! — some guardian angel must have sent them ! ” if not 
actually spoken, were so distinctly uttered in her heart, that she 
thought she heard them; and she retraced her steps, so swift¬ 
ly — so gladly, the very pain and exhaustion were unfelt. She 
wrote for half an hour intently — eagerly ; though that which 
she wrote she knew not herself, and never could recall. She 
took from the secret drawer of her desk (that secret drawer 
which, when Percy had so laughingly showed her the secret of 
its spring, telling her nobody but himself knew it, she little 
thought she should have occasion so to use,) some bank notes, 
of two, three, and five pounds each, making the fifteen she had 
so carefully hoarded, and placed with them the two she had 
found. As she did so, she discovered that two had clung so 
closely together that the sum was five pounds more than she 
wanted. Still, as acting under the influence of some spell, she 
carelessly put one aside, sealed up the packet to Edward, in¬ 
closed it in her uncle’s to Sir Edward Manly, and despatched it 
full four hours before the hour Mr. Hamilton had named. It 
was gone ; and she sat down to breathe. Some impulse, never 
experienced before, urged her, instead of destroying Edward’s 
desperate letter, as she had done similar appeals, to retain it in 
a blank envelop in that same secret drawer. As she tried to 
rouse herself from a sort of stupor which was strangely creep¬ 
ing over her, her eye, caught the five pound note which she had 
not had occasion to use, and a thought of such overwhelming 


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wretchedness rushed upon her, as effectually, for the moment, 
to disperse that stupor, and prostrate her in an agony of suppli¬ 
cation before her God. 

“ What have I done ? ” — if her almost maddening thoughts 
could have found words, such they would have been — “ How 
dared I appropriate that money, without one question — one 
thought — as to whom it could belong ? Sent me ? No, no ! 
Who could have sent it ? Great God of Mercy ! Oh, if Thy 
wrath must fall on a guilty one, pour it on me, but spare, spare 
my brother ! I have sinned, but I meant it not — thought not 
of it — knew not what I did! Thou knowest, Thou alone 
canst know, the only thought of that moment — the agony of 
this. No suffering, no wrath, can be too great for me ; but, 
oh ! spare him ! ” 

How long that withering agony lasted, Ellen knew not, nor 
whether her tears fell, or lay scorching her eyes and heart. 
The note lay before her like some hideous spectre, from which 
she vainly tried to turn. What could she do with it ? Take it 
back to the spot where the others had been blown to her ? 
She tried to rise to do so ; but, to her own terror, she found she 
was so powerless, that she actually could not walk. With des¬ 
perate calmness she placed it in the little secret drawer, put up 
the remainder of her papers, closed and locked her desk, and 
laid down upon her bed, for she could sit up no longer. Ellis 
came to her with an inquiry after her head, and if she could 
take her dinner. Ellen asked for a cup of coffee, and to be left 
quite quiet instead, as writing had not decreased the pain ; and 
the housekeeper, accustomed to such casual attacks, did as she 
was requested, and came frequently to see her in the course of 
the afternoon and evening; still without perceiving any thing 
unusual, and, therefore, not tormenting her with any expression 
of surprise or anxiety. 

Thought after thought congregated in the poor girl’s mind, 
as she thus lay ; so fraught with agony that the physical suffer¬ 
ing, which was far more than usual, was unfelt, save in its para¬ 
lyzing effect on every limb. Her impulse was to confess ex¬ 
actly what she had done to her aunt, the moment she could see 
her, and conjure her to sentence her to some heavy chastise¬ 
ment, that must deaden her present agony ; but this was im¬ 
possible without betraying Edward, and nullifying for him the 
relief she had sent. How could she confess the sin, without the 
full confession of the use to which that money had been applied ? 
Whose were the notes ? They were stained with damp, as if 
they must have lain among those withered leaves some time ; 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


237 


and yet she had heard no inquiry made about them, as the loss 
of so large a sum would surely have demanded. The only plan 
she could think of, as bringing the least hope of returning peace, 
was still to beseech Mrs. Langford to dispose of her watch and 
trinkets, and the very first mention she heard made of the 
loss to return the full sum to the real possessor, if possible, so 
secretly as for it not to be traced to herself. She thought, tdo, 
that if she gave her trinkets, one by one, not all together, to 
Mrs. Langford, it would be less suspicious, and, perhaps, more 
easily prevail on her to grant her secrecy and assistance ; and 
if she positively refused, unless Ellen revealed the reason of 
her desiring their disposal, and would solemnly promise secrecy, 
she would tell her so much of her intense misery, as might per¬ 
haps indu®e her to give her aid. If she did not demand the 
reason and betrayed her, she must endure the doubt and serious 
displeasure such a course of acting on her part would inevita¬ 
bly produce; but two things alone stood clear before her; she 
must replace that money — she must keep Edward’s secret. 
She would have gone that very day to Mrs. Langford, but she 
could not move, and Ellis, at seven o’clock, prevailed on her to 
undress and go to bed. 

“ Not better, my Ellen ? I hoped to-day’s perfect quietness 
would have removed your headache, and am quite disappoint¬ 
ed,” was Mrs. Hamilton’s affectionate address, as she softly 
entered her niece’s room, on the return of the happy party at 
eleven at night, and placing the lamp so that the bed remained 
in shade she could not see any expression in Ellen’s face, 
except that of suffering, which she naturally attributed to phy¬ 
sical pain. “ How hot your hands and face are, love ; I wish 
you had not left Edward’s letter to write to-day. I am afraid 
we shall be obliged to see Mr. Maitland’s face again to-mor¬ 
row ; if he were not as kind a friend as he is a skilful doctor, I 
am sure you would get quite tired of him, Ellen. Shall I stay 
with you ? I cannot bear leaving you in pain and alone! ” 
But Ellen would not hear of it; the pain was not more than 
she was often accustomed to, she said, and, indeed, she did not 
mind being alone — though the unusual, almost passionate, 
warmth with which she returned Mrs. Hamilton’s fond kiss, be¬ 
trayed it was no indifference to the affectionate offer which 
dictated her refusal. It was well Mrs. Hamilton, though anx¬ 
ious enough to feel the inclination to do so, did not visit her 
niece again, or the convulsive agony she would have witnessed, 
the choking sobs which burst forth, a few minutes after she 
disappeared from Ellen’s sight, would have bewildered and ter¬ 
rified her yet more. 


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CHAPTER III. 

t 

A SUMMONS AND A LOSS. 

Mr. Maitland declared Ellen to be ill of a nervous fever, 
which for three days confined her to her bed, and left her very 
weak for some little time, and so nervous that the least thing 
seemed to startle her; but, as he said it was no consequence, 
and she would soon recover, Mrs. Hamilton adopted* his advice, 
took no notice of it, and only endeavored to make her niece’s 
daily routine as varied in employment, though regular in hours 
and undisturbed in quiet, as she could. Perhaps she would 
have felt more anxious, and discovered something not quite 
usual in Ellen’s manner, if her thoughts had not been painfully 
preoccupied. About a week after their excursion she entered 
the library earlier than usual, and found her husband intently 
engaged with some despatches just received. She saw he was 
more than ordinarily disturbed, and hesitated a moment whe¬ 
ther to address him; but he was seldom so engrossed as to be 
unconscious of the presence of his wife. 

“ I am really glad you are here at this moment, Emmeline, 
for I actually was weak enough to shrink from seeking you 
with unpleasant news. Letters from Feroe have at length ar¬ 
rived, and my personal presence is so imperatively needed, that 
I am self-reproached at not going* before; the long silence 
ought to have convinced me that all was not as it should be.” 

“ But what has occurred, Arthur ? I had no idea you con¬ 
templated the necessity of going,” replied his wife very qui¬ 
etly, as she sat down close by him; but the fiat of separation, 
the thoughts of a perilous voyage, a visit to an almost desolate 
island, and the impossibility of receiving regular letters, so 
crowded upon her all at once, that it was a strong effort to 
speak at all. 

“ No, dearest; for what was the use of tormenting you with 
disagreeable anticipations, when there really might have been 
no foundation for them. The last accounts from Samboe, were, 
as you know, received nearly two years ago, telling me that 
Frederic Wilson was dead, but that his son had been received 
as his successor in the ministry, and as civil guardian of the 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


239 


island, with, if possible, a still greater degree of popularity than 
his predecessors, from his having been educated in Denmark. 
His parents had lived on straitened means to give him superior 
advantages, which, as it proves, he would have been much bet¬ 
ter without. The vices he has acquired have far outrun the 
advantages. His example, and that of a band of idle, irregular 
spirits who have joined him, has not only scandalized the sim¬ 
ple people but disturbed their homesteads, brought contention 
and misery, and in some cases bloodshed; so that in point of 
social and domestic position, I fear they have sunk lower than 
when my grandfather first sought the island. The mother of 
this unhappy young man has, naturally, perhaps, but weakly, 
shrunk from informing against him; but her brother, the cler¬ 
gyman of Osteroe, has at length taken upon himself to do so, 
clearly stating that nothing but personal interference and some 
months’ residence among them will effect a reformation; and 
that the ruin is more to be regretted, as the little island has 
been for more than half a century the admiration not only of 
its immediate neighbors, but of all who have chanced to harbor 
off its coast. He states, too, that if properly directed and not 
exposed to the contagion of large cities, as his brother has 
been, poor Wilson’s younger son, now a boy of eleven, may 
become as worthy and judicious a pastor as his father and 
grandfather, and so keep the office in his family, as my grand¬ 
father was so desirous of doing. The question is, how is this 
boy to be educated on the island, and whom can I find to take 
the ministry meanwhile ? ” 

“And must your own residence there be very long ? ” inquired 
Mrs. Hamilton, still in that quiet tone, but her lip quivered. 

“ It depends entirely on whom I can get to accompany me, 
dearest. I must set Mr. Howard and Morton to work to find 
me some simple-minded, single-hearted individual, who will 
regard this undertaking in the same missionary spirit as the 
elder Wilson did. If I am happy enough to succeed in this, I 
hope a year, or somewhat less, will be the farthest limit of our 
separation.” 

“A year! a whole long year — dearest Arthur, must it be so 
very, very long ? ” 

“ Who tried to persuade Ellen, a fortnight ago, that a year, 
even two years, would pass so very quickly ? ” replied Mr. 
Hamilton, trying to smile, and folding his arm fondly round his 
wife, he kissed the cheek which had become pale from the 
effort to restrain her feelings. “ It is indeed an unexpected 
and a painful trial, and, as is generally the case with our rebel- 


240 


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lious spirits, I feel as if it would liave been better borne at any 
other period than the present. We had so portioned out this 
year, had so anticipated gratifying Caroline by introducing her 
to the so long and so eagerly anticipated pleasures of London 
next January, that I cannot bear to think of her disappoint¬ 
ment.” 

“And our boys, too, they say it is so strange to be without 
their father, even in college term; what will it be when they 
come home for the long vacation, to whifch we have all so 
looked forward ? But this is all weakness, my own dear hus¬ 
band ; forgive me, I am only rendering your duty more diffi¬ 
cult,” she added, raising her head from his shoulder, and 
smiling cheerfully, even while the tears glistened in her eyes. 

“ I must try and practise my own lesson, and believe the term 
of separation will really pass quickly, interminable as it now 
seems. We have been so blessed, so guarded from the bitter 
pang of even partial separation for twenty years, that how 
dare I murmur now the trial has come ? It is God’s pleasure, 
dearest Arthur, though it seems like the work of man, and as 
Ills we can endure it.” 

“ Bless y'ou, my beloved! you have indeed put a new spirit 
in me by those words,” replied her husband, with a fondness, 
the more intense from the actual veneration that so largely 
mingled with it. “And bitter disappointment as it is to me to 
be from home when our sons return, it is better so, perhaps, for 
their company will wile away at least nearly three months of 
my absence.” 

Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton remained some hours together that 
morning in earnest conversation. All of individual regret was 
conquered for the sake of the other: its expression, at least, not 
its feeling; but they understood each other too well, too fondly, 
to need words or complaints to prove to either how intensely 
painful was the very thought of separation. To elude the per¬ 
formance of a duty which many persons, unable to enter into 
the hope of effecting good, would, no doubt, pronounce Quix¬ 
otic — for what could the poor inhabitants of Samboe be to 
him? — never entered either Mr. or Mrs. Hamilton’s mind. 
He was not one to neglect his immediate duties for distant ones; 
but believed and acted on the belief, that both could be united. 
His own large estate, its various farms, parishes, and villages, 
were so admirably ordered, that he could leave it without the 
smallest scruple in the hands of his wife and steward. Though 
interested in, and actually assisting in the political movements 
of his country, he was still, as from his youth he had firmly 


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241 


resolved to be, a free, independent Englishman; bound to no 
party, but respected by all; retaining his own principles un¬ 
shaken as a rock, though often and often his integrity had been 
tried by court bribes and dazzling offers. And yet, rare blend¬ 
ing with such individual feelings, Arthur Hamilton looked with 
candor and kindness on the conduct and principles of others, 
however they might differ from his own, and found excuses for 
them, which none others could. That he should give up all the 
comforts, the luxuries, the delights of his peculiarly happy 
home, to encounter several months’ sojourn in a bleak, half- 
civilized island, only in the hope of restoring and insuring moral 
and religious improvement to a small colony of human beings, 
whose sole claim upon him was, that they were immortal as 
himself, and that they had done a kindness to his grandfather 
more than half a century back, was likely to, and no doubt did, 
excite the utmost astonishment in very many circles; but not a 
sneer, not a word seeming to whisper good should be done at 
home before sought abroad, could find a moment’s resting-place 
near Arthur Hamilton’s name. 

For half an hour after Mrs. Hamilton quitted her husband 
she remained alone, and when she rejoined her family, though 
she might have been a shade paler than her wont, she was as 
cheerful in conversation and earnest in manner as usual. That 
evening Mr. Hamilton informed his children and Miss Ilarcourt 
of his intended departure, and consequent compelled change of 
plan. Emmeline’s burst of sorrow was violent and uncontrolled. 
Caroline looked for a minute quite bewildered, and then hasten¬ 
ing to her father threw one arm round his neck, exclaiming, in 
a voice of the most affectionate sincerity, “Dear papa, what 
shall we do without you for such a long time?” 

“My dear* child! I thank you for such an affectionate 
thought; believe me, the idea of your wishes being postponed 
has pained me as much as any thing else in this unpleasant 
duty.” 

“ My wishes postponed, papa — what do you mean ? ” 

“Have you quite forgotten our intended plans for next Janu¬ 
ary, my love ? My absence must alter them.” 

For a moment an expression of bitter disappointment clouded 
Caroline’s open countenance. 

“ Indeed, papa, I had forgotten it; I only thought of your 
going away for so many months. It is a great disappointment, 
I own, and I dare say I shall feel it still more when January 
comes; but I am sure parting from you must be a still greater 
trial to mamma, than any such disappointment ought to be to 
21 


242 


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me; and, indeed, I will try and bear it as uncomplainingly and 
cheerfully as she does.” 

Her father almost involuntarily drew her to his heart, and 
kissed her two or three times, without speaking; and Caroline 
was very glad he did so, for when she looked up again, the 
tears that would come at the first thought of her disappoint¬ 
ment were bravely sent back again; and she tried to cheer 
Emmeline, by assuring her she never could be like her favorite 
heroines of romance, if she behaved so very much like a child; 
taking the opportunity when they retired for the night, to say 
more seriously — 

“Dear Emmeline, do try and be as lively as you always 
are. I am sure poor mamma is suffering very much at the idea 
of papa’s leaving us, though she will not let us see that she 
does, and if you give way so, it will make her more uncomfort¬ 
able still.” 

Emmeline promised to try; but her disposition, quite as sus¬ 
ceptible to sorrow as to joy, and not nearly as firm as her 
sister’s, rendered the promise very difficult to fulfil. It was 
her first sorrow; and Mrs. Hamilton watched her with some 
anxiety, half fearful that she had been wrong to shield her so 
carefully from any thing like grief, if, when it came, she should 
prove unequal to its firm and uncomplaining endurance. Ellen 
had been out of fhe room when Mr. Hamilton had first spoken; 
and engaged in soothing Emmeline; when she reentered and 
the news was communicated to her, he did not observe any 
thing particular in her mode of receiving it. But Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton was so struck with the expression of her countenance, which, 
as she tried somewhat incoherently to utter regrets, took the 
place of its usual calm, that she looked at her several minutes 
in bewilderment; but it passed again, so completely, that she 
was angry with herself for fancying any thing uncommon. 
Caroline, however, had remarked it too, and she could not help 
observing to Miss Harcourt, the first time they were alone — 

“ You will say I am always fancying something extraordi¬ 
nary, Miss Harcourt; but Ellen certainly did look pleased last 
night, when mamma told her of papa’s intended departure.” 

“ The expression must have been something extraordinary 
for you to remark it at all,” replied Miss Harcourt; nobody 
but Mrs. Hamilton, whose penetration is out of the common, can 
ever read any thing on Ellen’s face.” 

“ And it was for that very reason I looked again ; and mamma 
noticed it too, and was surprised, though she did not say any 
thing. If she really be pleased, she is most ungrateful, and all 


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243 


her profession of feeling mamma and papa’s constant kindness 
sheer deceit. I never shall understand Ellen, I believe; but I 
do hope mamma will never discover that she is not exactly that 
which her affection believes her.” 

“ Pray do not talk so, my dear Caroline, or I shall be tempted 
to confess that you are giving words to my own feelings. Her 
conduct with regard to the disappearance of her allowance, the 
wholly unsatisfactory account of its expenditure, even every 
month, for she seems to me to mention many things she has 
never had, banish every hopeful feeling, and I dread more than 
I can tell you, the very thing you have expressed. But all this 
is very wrong; we have relieved each other by a mutual ac¬ 
knowledgment, and now let us never revert, even in thought, if 
possible, to the subject.” 

Caroline willingly acquiesced, for it was far from agreeable. 
Mr. Hamilton’s preparations, meanwhile, rapidly progressed. 
He imparted his wishes for a companion willing to remain in 
the island, till young Wilson should be prepared for the mi¬ 
nistry, both to Mr. Howard and Mr. Morton, (the latter still re¬ 
mained in his desolate parish, still more isolated in feeling from 
the loss of both his parents, and Percy’s absence,) and both, 
especially Morton, gave him every hope of obtaining the cha¬ 
racter he wanted. His next inquiry was at Dartmouth for a 
strong, well-built vessel, fitted to encounter the stormy seas 
between Scotland and Feroe, determining to do all in his power 
to provide some means of regular communication between him¬ 
self and the beloved inmates of his home. Wick, in Caithness, 
was the farthest post town to which letters could be addressed. 
Every ten days or fortnight communications were to be sent 
there, and the Siren, after conveying him to Feroe, was regu¬ 
larly to ply between Samboe and Wick, bringing from the 
latter place to Mr. Hamiltop the various letters that had accu¬ 
mulated there, should unfavorable winds have lengthened the 
voyage, and forwarding his through that post to his home. By 
this means, he hoped to hear and be heard of regularly; an 
intense relief, if it really could be so accomplished, to his wife. 

As soon as a ship, a competent captain, mate, and crew were 
obtained, Mr. Hamilton set off for Oxford and London, wishing 
in the latter place to se-e his friend Grahame, and in the former 
to pass a few days with his sons, who, knowing nothing of his 
summons, received him with unbounded delight. Their regret, 
when they heard the cause of his visit, was as great as their joy 
had been. Percy, in a desperate fit of impatience, wished the 
little island and all its concerns at the botton of the sea, the best 


244 


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place for such unruly, disagreeable people; and he was only 
sobered when his father put before him that, though it must be 
a very heightened individual disappointment, it was the greatest 
comfort to him, to think that they would both be with their 
mother and sisters the first few months of his absence. Percy 
instantly altered his tone. 

“ You are quite right, my dear father; I was very selfish not 
to think of it. Trust me for making my dearest mother as 
cheerful and has happy as I can. You don’t know what a 
guardian angel the thought of her love has been to me in tempt¬ 
ation ; and as for Bertie, if ever I thought he was studying him¬ 
self ill, and not taking the care of himself he ought, or wanted 
him to take exercise and recreation, when he thought me a great 
bore, the word mother, made him yield at once.” 

And Herbert’s kindling eye and cheek bore testimony to the 
truth of his brother’s words. His only feeling and exclamation 
had been, if he might but accompany his father, and save him 
all the trouble he could; allowing, however, its impossibility, 
when the circumstances of his still delicate health and the 
necessity for uninterrupted study, were placed before him. 

That visit to Oxford was a proud one for Mr. Hamilton. 
His sons held that place in the estimation of the professors, 
superiors, and their fellow-collegians, which their early influ¬ 
ences had promised, and which, as the sons of Arthur Hamilton, 
seemed naturally their own. Percy could so combine firmness 
in principle, unbending rectitude in conduct, with such a spirit 
of fun and enjoyment, as rendered him the prime mover of all 
sports at Oxford, as he had been at Oakwood; and Herbert, 
though so gentle and retiring as (until Percy’s spirit was roused 
to shield him) gained him many nicknames and many petty 
annoyances, silently and insensibly won his way, and so bore 
with the thoughtless, the mirthful, and even the faulty, as at 
length to gain him the privilege of being allowed to do just as 
he liked, and win, by his extraordinary talents, the admiration 
and love of all the professors with whom he was thrown. 

Morton had promised to introduce a person to Mr. Hamilton 
on his return from Oxford, who, if approved of, would be his 
willing, his eager assistant, and gladly remain in the island, 
attending to all that was required in its superintendence, and in 
the education of young Wilson, till he was old enough and pro¬ 
perly fitted to take his father’s place. Great, then, was Mr. 
Hamilton’s disappointment, when Morton entered his library, 
according to appointment, but quite alone. Still greater was 
his astonishment, when he found it was Morton himself, thus 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


245 


eagerly desirous to become bis companion, urging his wishes, 
liis motives, Mr. Howard’s sanction, with such earnestness, such 
single-mindedness of purpose, that every objection which, for 
Morton’s own sake, Mr. Hamilton so strenuously brought for¬ 
ward, was overruled ; and after a lengthened interview, matters 
were arranged to the entire satisfaction of both parties. The 
idea of the companionship and aid of such a friend as Morton 
bringing as great a relief to both Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton, as 
their acquiescence filled the whole heart of the young mission¬ 
ary with the most unbounded gratitude and joy. He suggested 
many little things, which, in the agitation of his hasty sum¬ 
mons, had escaped his friends, and his whole being seemed 
transformed from despondency and listlessness to energy and 
hope. Engrossed as he was, Mr. Hamilton’s usual thought for 
others had not deserted him, and he remarked that one of his 
household, Robert Langford, so often mentioned, appeared to 
linger in the library after morning and evening service, as if 
anxious to speak to him, but failing in courage so to do. He 
thought, too, that the young man seemed quite altered, dis¬ 
pirited, gloomy, almost wretched at times, instead of the mirth¬ 
ful, happy being he had been before. Determining to give 
him an opportunity of speaking before his departure, if he 
wished it, Mr. Hamilton summoned him to arrange, write a 
list, and pack some books, which Morton had selected to take 
with him. For some time Robert pursued his work in perse¬ 
vering silence, but at length fixed his eyes on his master with 
such beseeching earnestness, that Mr. Hamilton inquired the 
matter at once. It was some sime before the young man could 
sufficiently compose himself to speak with any coherency, but 
at last Mr. Hamilton gathered the following details. 

About five weeks previous (the first day of June) he had 
been intrusted, as he had very often before been, by his master, 
with certain papers and law articles to convey to Plymouth, 
and with a pocket-book containing thirty pounds, in two ten 
and two five pound notes, which he had orders to leave at some 
poor though respectable families, whom Mr. Hamilton was in 
the habit of occasionally assisting, though they were out of his 
own domains. The morning he was to have started on this ex¬ 
pedition a cousin, whotn he had always regarded as a brother, 
came unexpectedly to see him. He had just arrived at Ply¬ 
mouth from a four years’ residence with his regiment in Ireland: 
and Robert’s glee was so great as to require reiterated com¬ 
mands from the steward to take care of the papers, and not 
stay at his mother’s cottage, where he was to take his cousin, 
21 * 


246 


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later than the afternoon. He lingered so long before he set 
off from Oakwood, that he gathered up all the papers as quickly 
as he could, forgot his principal charge, so far at least as not 
to look to the secure fastening of the pocket-book, and hastened 
with his cousin through the brushwood and glade we have be¬ 
fore mentioned, to his mother’s cottage. It was very hot, and 
the young men, heated and in eager conversation, took off their 
coats, threw them loosely over their arms, and proceeded on 
their walk without them, much too engrossed with each other 
to be aware that, as they carried their coats, it was the easiest 
and most natural thing possible for all the smaller contents of 
their pockets to fall out, and if not missed directly, from the 
winding and rugged wood path, not likely to be found again. 

A draught of cider and half an hour’s rest at Mrs. Lang¬ 
ford’s cottage sufficiently revived Robert to resume his coat; 
he satisfied himself that his packet of papers was secure, and, 
as he imagined from the feel of another pocket, the pocket- 
book also. 

What, then, was his consternation, when he approached the 
first house at which he was to leave ten pounds of the money, 
about twenty miles from Oakwood, to discover that the pocket- 
book was gone ! and that which, by its feel, he believed to have 
been it, an old card-case, that his young master Percy had 
laughingly thrown at him one day after failing in his endeavor 
to emblazon it, 'the sticky materials he had used causing it to 
adhere to whatever it touched, and so preserving it in Robert’s 
pocket, when almost all the other things had fallen out. He 
racked his memory in vain as to what could have become of 
it, convinced that he had not left it at Oakwood, as he first 
sincerely wished that he had. Two or three other things had 
also disappeared, and it suddenly flashed upon him, that when 
carrying his coat over his arm they must have fallen out. He 
cursed his thoughtlessness again and again, and would have re¬ 
traced his steps immediately, but the papers with which he was 
intrusted had to be delivered at Plymouth by a certain hour, 
and he could not do it. The intense heat of the day gave 
place in the evening to a tremendous storm of thunder and 
lightning, wind, and very heavy rain, which last continued un¬ 
abated* through the night. He returned home, or rather to his 
mother’s cottage, the next day, in a state of mind little re¬ 
moved from distraction ; searching the path he had traversed 
with his cousin in every direction, but only succeeded in finding 
some worthless trifles, and the pocket-book itself, but open and 
empty ; but at a little distance from it one five pound note. In 


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247 


an instant lie remembered that in his hurry he had failed to see 
to its proper fastening; if he had, all would have been right, 
for the wind and rain would hardly have had power to open it, 
and disperse its contents. Hour after hour he passed in the 
vain search for the remainder ; the storm had rendered the path 
more intricate; the ground was slimy, and quantities of dried 
sticks and broken branches and leaves almost covered it. He 
told his tale to his mother in the deepest distress ; what was he 
to do ? She advised him to tell the steward the whole story, 
and to request him to keep back the sum she was in the habit 
of receiving quarterly, till the whole amount could be repaid. 
Robert obeyed her, but with most painful reluctance, though 
even then he did not imagine all the misery his carelessness 
would entail upon him. Morris, as was natural, was exceed¬ 
ingly displeased, and not only reproved him very severely, but 
let fall suspicions as to the truth of his story; he knew nothing 
of his cousin, he said, and could not say what company he might 
have been led into. If the notes had fallen out of his pocket 
during his walk, they must be found; it was all nonsense that 
the wind and rain could so have scattered and annihilated them, 
as to remove all trace of them. He would not say any thing to 
his master, because it would only annoy him, and the charities 
he would give himself, not from Mrs. Langford’s allowance, but 
from Robert’s own wages, which he should certainly stop till 
the whole sum was paid; he should take care how he intrusted 
such a responsible office to him again. 

Robert was at first indignant, and violent in his protestations 
of the truth of his story; but as it got wind in the servants’ 
hall, as he found himself suspected and shunned by almost all, 
as days merged into weeks, and there was no trace of the notes, 
and Morris and Ellis both united in declaring that, as no 
strangers passed through that part of the park, if found they 
must have been heard of, the young man sunk into a state of 
the most gloomy despondency, longing to tell his kind master 
the whole tale, and yet, naturally enough, shrinking from the 
dread of his suspicion of his honesty, as more terrible than all 
the rest. 

But Mr. Hamilton did not suspect him, and so assured him 
of his firm belief in his truth and innocence, that it was with 
great difficulty poor Robert refrained from throwing himself at 
his feet to pour forth his gratitude. He was so severely pun¬ 
ished from his heedlessness, that his master would not say much 
about it, and soon after dismissing him, summoned Morris, and 
talked with him some time on the subject, declaring he would 


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as soon suspect his own son of dishonesty as the boy who had 
grown up under his own eye from infancy, and the son of such 
a mother. It was very distressing for Mrs. Langford certainly, 
the old steward allowed, and she looked sad enough; but it was 
no use, he had tried hard enough to prevent his suspicions, but 
they would come. None but the servants and the woodmen 
and gardeners went that path, and if the notes had been drop¬ 
ped there, they must have been found ; and it was a very hard 
thing for the other servants, as none knew who might be sus¬ 
pected of appropriating them. His master was much too kind 
in his opinions, but he must forgive him if he continued to keep 
a sharp look out after the young man. Morris was very old, 
and somewhat opinionated; so all that his master could suc¬ 
ceed in, was to insist that he should only keep back half of 
Robert’s wages, till the sum was paid. 

“ Take away the whole, and if he have been unfortunately 
led into temptation, which I do not believe he has, you expose 
him to it again,” was his judicious command. “ It is all right 
he should return it, even though lost only by carelessness; but 
I will not have him put to such straits for want of a little 
money, as must be the case if you deprive him of all his wages ; 
and now, my good Morris, if you cannot in conscience repeat 
my firm opinion of this lad’s innocence to the servants, I must 
do it myself.” f 

And that very evening after prayers, when the whole house¬ 
hold were assembled in the library, Mr. Hamilton addressed 
them simply and briefly, mentioning that Robert Langford had 
himself told his tale to him, and that it was his own opinion, and 
that of their mistress, that he did not deserve the suspicions at¬ 
tached to him, and that his fellow-servants would all be acting 
more charitably and religiously if they believed his story, until 
they had had some strong proof 4o the contrary; he could not, 
of course, interfere with private opinion; he could only tell 
them his own and their lady’s. He acknowledged it was a very 
unpleasant occurrence, but he begged them all to dismiss the 
idea that suspicion could be attached to either of them; he felt 
too convinced that had any one of his household chanced to find 
the missing notes, they would at once have mentioned it to the 
steward or housekeeper, more especially since Robert’s loss had 
been known among them only a few days after it had occurred. 
Appropriation, he need not tell them, in such a case was theft, 
and of that sin, he was perfectly certain, not one present would 
be guilty. He allowed that it would be much more satisfactory 
to have the tangible proof of Robert’s innocence by discovering 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


249 


some trace of them, but it was not unlikely the heavy wind and 
rain had destroyed the thin material of the notes or borne them 
into the brambly brushwood, where it was scarcely possible 
they could be found. 

If the attention of Mrs. Hamilton, her daughters, and Miss 
Harcourt had not been naturally riveted on Mr. Hamilton’s ad¬ 
dress, and its effect on the servants, especially Robert, whose 
emotion was almost overpowering, they must have remarked 
that Ellen had shrunk into the shade of the heavy curtains fall¬ 
ing by one of the windows, and had unconsciously grasped the 
oaken back of one of the massive chairs; lips, cheek, and brow, 
white and rigid as sculptured marble. An almost supernatural 
effort alone enabled her to master the crushing agony, sending 
the blood up to her cheeks with such returning violence, that 
when she wished her aunt and uncle good night, she might have 
been thought more flushed than pale; but it passed unnoticed; 
Mrs. Hamilton too much annoyed on Mrs. Langford’s account, 
to think at that moment of any thing but how she could best set 
the poor mother’s heart at rest. It was very evident that though 
some of the domestics, after their master’s address, came up to 
Robert, shook hands with him and begged his pardon, the greater 
number still sided with Morris, and retained their own less fa¬ 
vorable opinion, and she could well imagine what Mrs. Lang¬ 
ford’s sufferings must be. It only wanted five days to that 
fixed for Mr. Hamilton’s departure, wind permitting; and there 
were so many things to think of and do for him, that his family 
could have little thought of any thing else; but Mrs. Hamilton 
assured her husband she would leave no means untried to prove 
Robert’s innocence. 

For nearly an hour that same night did Ellen, after her 
attendant had left her, sit crouched by the side of her bed as 
if some bolt had struck and withered her as she sat. One word 
alone sounded and resounded in her ears; she had known it, 
pronounced it to be such to herself numbers of times, but it had 
never mocked and maddened her as when spoken in her uncle’s 
voice, and in his deepest, most expressive tone — “ theft! ” And 
she was the guilty one — and she must see the innocent bear¬ 
ing the penalty of her crime, suspicion, dislike, avoidance, for 
she dared not breathe the truth. Again came the wild, almost 
desperate, resolve to seek Mrs. Hamilton that very moment, 
avow herself the criminal, implore her to take back every 
trinket belonging to her, to replace it, and do with her what she 
would. But if she did confess, and so draw attention to her, 
how could she keep her brother’s secret? Could she have firm- 


250 


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ness to bear all, rather than betray it? What proof of her 
inward wretchedness and remorse could there be in the mere 
confession of appropriation, when the use to which she had ap¬ 
plied that money and all concerning it, even to the day it was 
found, must be withheld, lest it should in any way be connected 
with her letter to her brother. She must be silent; and the 
only prayer which, night and morning, ay, almost every hour, 
rose from that young heart, was for death, ere it was too late 
for God’s forgiveness. 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE BROKEN DESK. 

The many secret wishes for an unfavorable wind, that Mr. 
Hamilton might stay at Oakwood still a little longer, were not 
granted, and he left his family the very day he had fixed, the 
14th of July, just three weeks after his summons, and about 
ten days before his sons were expected home. Without him 
Oakwood was strange indeed, but with the exception of Emme¬ 
line, all seemed determined to conquer the sadness and anxiety, 
which the departure of one so beloved, naturally occasioned. 
Emmeline was~so unused to any thing like personal sorrow, 
that she rather seemed to luxuriate in its indulgence. 

“ Do you wish to both disappoint and displease me, my dear 
Emmeline ? ” her mother said, one day, about a week after her 
husband had gone, as she entered the music-room, expecting to 
find her daughter at the harp, but perceiving her instead, list¬ 
less and dispirited, on the sofa. “ Indeed, you will do both, if 
you give way to this most uncalled-for gloom.” 

“ Uncalled for,” replied Emmeline, almost pettishly. 

“ Quite uncalled for, to the extent in which you are indulg¬ 
ing it; and even if called for, do you not think you would be 
acting more correctly, if you thought more of others than your¬ 
self, and tried to become your own cheerful self for their sakes ? 
It is the first time you have ever given me cause to suspect 
you of selfishness ; and I am disappointed.” 

“ Selfishness, mamma; and I do hate the thought of it so! 
Am I selfish ? ” she repeated, her voice faltering, and her eyes 
filling fast with tears. 

“ I hope not, my love; but if you do not try to shake off 



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251 


tliis depression, we must believe you to be so. Your father’s 
absence is a still greater trial to Caroline than it is to you, for 
it compels a very bitter disappointment, as well as the loss of 
his society ; and yet, though she feels both deeply, she has ex¬ 
erted herself more than I ever saw her do before, and so proves, 
more than any words or tears could do, how much she loves 
both him and me.” 

“ And do you think I love you both, less than she does ? ” 
replied Emmeline, now fairly sobbing. 

“ No, dearest; but I want you to prove it in the same admi¬ 
rable manner. Do you think I do not feel your father’s ab¬ 
sence, Emmeline ? but would you like to see me as sad and 
changed as you are ? ” 

Emmeline looked up in her face, for there was something in 
the tone that appealed to her better feelings at once. Throw¬ 
ing her arms round her, she sobbed — 

“ Dear mamma, do forgive me. I see now I have been very 
selfish and very weak, but I never, never can be as firm and 
self-controlled as you and Caroline are.” 

“ Do not say never, love, or you will never try to be so. I 
am quite sure you would not like to be one of those weak, self¬ 
ish characters, who lay all their faults, and all the mischief 
their faults produce, on a supposed impossibility to become like 
others. I know your disposition is naturally less strong and 
firm than your sister’s, but it is more elastic, and still more 
joyous; and so had you not too weakly encouraged your very 
natural sorrow, you would have been enabled to throw it off, 
and in the comfort such an exertion would have brought to us, 
fully recompensed yourself.” 

“ And if I do try now ? ” 

“ I shall be quite satisfied, dearest; though I fear you will 
find it more difficult than had you tried a few days ago. Con¬ 
fess that I am right. Did you not, after the first two or three 
days, feel that you could have been cheerful again, at least at 
times, but that you fancied you had not felt sorry enough, and 
so increased both sorrow and anxiety by determinedly dwell¬ 
ing on them, instead of seeking some pursuit ? ” 

“ Dear mamma, shall I never be able to hide a feeling from 
you ? ” answered Emmeline, so astonished, that her tears half 
dried. “ I did not know I felt so myself till you put it before 
me, and now I know that I really did. Was it very wrong ? ” 

“ I will answer your question by another, love. Did you 
find such pertinacious indulgence of gloom help you to bring 
the object of your regret and anxiety, and of your own grief, 
before your Heavenly Father ? ” 


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Emmeline hesitated, but only for a minute, then answered, 
with a crimson blush — 

“ No, mamma; I could not pray to God to protect dear 
papa, or to give me His blessing, half as earnestly and believ- 
ingly as when I was happier; the more I indulged in gloomy 
thoughts, the more difficulty I had to turn them to prayer, and 
the last few days, I fear, I have not even tried.” 

“ Then, dearest, is it necessary fpr me to answer your former 
question ? I see by that conscious look that it is not. You have 
always trusted my experience and affection, my Emmeline, 
trust them now, and try my plan. Think of your dear father, 
whom you cannot love too well, or whose compelled absence 
really regret too much; but so think of him, as to pray conti¬ 
nually in spirit to your gracious God, to have him always in 
His holy keeping, either on sea or land, in storm or calm, and 
so prosper his undertaking, as to permit his return to us still 
sooner than we at present expect. The very constant prayer 
for this, will make you rest secure and happy in the belief that 
our God is with him wherever he is, as He is with us, and so 
give you cheerfulness and courage to attend to your daily duties, 
and conquer any thing like too selfish sorrow. Will you try 
this, love, even if it be more difficult now than it would have 
been a few days ago ? ” 

“ I will indeed, mamma,” and she raised her head from her 
mother’s shoulder, and tried to smile. “When you first ad¬ 
dressed me to-day, I thought you were almost harsh, and so 
cold — so you see even there I was thinking wrong — and now 
I am glad, oh, so glad, you did speak to me! ” 

“ And I know who will be glad too, if I have prevented his 
having a Niobe for his Tiny, instead of the Euphrosyne, which 
I believe he sometimes calls you. I thought there was one par¬ 
ticular duet that Percy is to be so charmed with, Emmy. Sup¬ 
pose you try it now.” And, her tears all checked, her most 
unusual gloom dispersed, Emmeline obeyed with alacrity, and 
finding, when she had once begun, so many things to get perfect 
for the gratification of her brothers, that nearly three hours 
slipped away quite unconsciously ; and when Caroline returned 
from a walk, she was astonished at the change in her sister, and 
touched by the affectionate self-reproach with which Emmeline, 
looking up in her face, exclaimed — 

“ Dear Caroline, I have been so pettish and so cross to you 
since papa left, that I am sure you must be quite tired of me ; 
but I am going to be really a heroine now, and not a sham 
sentimental one; and bear the pain of papa’s absence as bravely 
as you do.” 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


253 


And she did so; though at first it was, as her mother had 
warned her, very difficult to compel the requisite exertion, 
which for employment and cheerfulness, was now needed ; but 
when the will is right, there is little fear of failure. 

As each day passed, so quickly merging into weeks, that five 
had now slipped away since that fatal letter had been sent to 
Edward, the difficulty to do as she had intended, entreat Mrs. 
Langford to dispose of her trinkets and watch, became to Ellen, 
either in reality or seeming, more and more difficult. Her 
illness had confined her to her room for nearly a week, and 
when she was allowed to take the air, the state of nervous de¬ 
bility to which it had reduced her, of course prevented her ever 
being left alone. The day after Mr. Hamilton’s appeal to his 
domestics, she had. made a desperate attempt, by asking per¬ 
mission to be the bearer of a message from her aunt to the 
widow ; and as the girls were often allowed and encouraged to 
visit their nurse, the request was granted without any surprise, 
though to the very last moment she feared one of her cousins 
or Miss Harcourt would offer to accompany her. They were 
all, however, too occupied with and for Mr. Hamilton, "andT^she 
sought the cottage, and there, with such very evident mental 
agony, besought Mrs. Langford to promise her secrecy and aid, 
that the widow, very much against her conscience, was won over 
to accede. She was in most pressing want of money, she urged, 
and dared not appeal to her aunt. Not daring to say the whole 
amount which she so urgently required at once, she had only 
brought with her the antique gold cross and two or three smaller 
ornaments, which had been among her mother’s trinkets, and a 
gold locket Percy had given her. Mrs. Langford was painfully 
startled. She had no* idea her promise comprised acquiescence 
and assistance in any matter so very wrong and mysterious as 
this ; and she tried every argument, every persuasion, to prevail 
on Ellen to confide all her difficulties to Mrs. Hamilton, urging 
that if even she had done wrong, it could only call for tempo¬ 
rary displeasure, whereas the mischief of her present proceed¬ 
ing might never come to an end, and must be discovered at last; 
but Ellen was inexorable, though evidently quite as miserable 
as she was firm, and Mrs. Langford had too high an idea of the 
solemn nature of a pledged word to draw back, or think of 
betraying her. She said that, of course, it might be some weeks 
before she could succeed in disposing of them all; as to offer 
them all together, or even at one place, would be exposing her¬ 
self to the most unpleasant suspicions. 

22 


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One step was thus gained, but nearly a fortnight had passed, 
and she heard nothing from the widow. 

“ Will they never come?” exclaimed Emmeline, in mirthful 
impatience, one evening, about four days after her conversation 
with her mother; “ it must be past the hour Percy named.” 

“ It still wants half an hour,” replied Mrs. Hamilton; add¬ 
ing, “ that unfortunate drawing, when will it succeed in ob¬ 
taining your undivided attention ? ” 

“ Certainly not this evening, mamma; the only drawing I 
feel inclined for, is a sketch of my two brothers, if they would 
only have the kindness to sit by me.” 

“ Poor Percy,” observed Caroline, dryly; “ if you are to be 
as restless as you have been the last hour, Emmeline, he would 
not be very much flattered by his portrait.” 

“Now that is very spiteful of you, Caroline, and all because 
I do not happen to be so quiet and sober as you are; though I 
am sure all this morning, that mamma thought by your unusu¬ 
ally long absence that you were having a most persevering 
practice, you were only collecting all Percy’s and Herbert’s 
favorite songs and pieces, and playing them over, instead of 
your new music.” 

“ And what if I did, Emmeline ? ” 

“ Why, it only proves that your thoughts are quite as much 
occupied by them as mine are, though you have so disagreeably 
read, studied, worked, just as usual, to make one believe you 
neither thought nor cared any thing about them.” 

“And so, because Caroline can control even joyous anticipa¬ 
tion, she is to be thought void of feeling, Emmy. I really can 
pronounce no such judgment; so, though she may have settled 
to her usual pursuits, and you have literally done nothing at all 
to-day, I will not condemn her as loving her brothers less.” 

“ But you will condemn me as an idle, unsteady, hair-brained 
girl,” replied Emmeline, kneeling on the ottoman at her mother’s 
feet, and looking archly and fondly in her face. Then do let 
me have a fellow-sufferer, for I cannot stand condemnation 
alone. Ellen, do put away that everlasting sketch, and be idle 
and unsteady, too! ” 

“It won’t do, Emmy; Ellen has been so perseveringly in¬ 
dustrious since her illness, that I should rather condemn her for 
too much application than too great idleness. But you really 
have been stooping too long this Tvarm evening, my love,” she 
added, observing, as Ellen, it seemed almost involuntarily, 
looked up at her cousin’s words, that her cheeks were flushed 
almost painfully. “ Oblige Emmeline this once, and be as idle 


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as she is: come and talk to me, I have scarcely heard a word 
from you to-day; you have been more silent than ever, I think, 
since your uncle left us; but I must have no gloom to greet 
your cousins, Ellen.” 

There was no rejoinder to these kind and playful words. 
Ellen did indeed put aside her drawing, but instead of taking a 
seat near her aunt, which in former days she would have been 
only too happy to do, she walked to the farthest window, and 
ensconcing herself in its deep recess, seemed determined to hold 
communion with no one. Miss Harcourt was so indignant as 
scarcely to be able to contain its expression, Caroline looked 
astonished and provoked. Emmeline was much too busy in 
flying from w T indow to window, to think of any thing else but 
her brothers. Mrs. Hamilton was more grieved and hurt than 
Ellen had scarcely ever made her feel. Several times before, in 
the last month, she had fancied there was something unusual in 
her manner; but the many anxieties and thoughts which had 
engrossed her since her husband’s summons and his departure, 
had prevented any thing, till that evening, but momentary sur¬ 
prise. Emmeline’s exclamation that she was quite sure she 
heard the trampling of horses, and that it must be Percy, by 
the headlong way he rode, prevented any remark, and brought 
them all to the window ; and she was right, for in a few minutes 
a horseman emerged from some distant trees, urging his horse 
to its utmost speed, waving his cap in all sorts of mirthful gesti¬ 
culation over his head, long before he could be quite sure that 
there was anybody to see him. Another minute, and he had 
flung the reins to Robert, with a laughing greeting, and spring¬ 
ing up the long flight of steps in two bounds, was in the sitting- 
room and in the arms of his mother, before either of his family 
imagined he could have had even time to dismount. 

“ Herbert ? ” was the first word Mrs. Hamilton’s quivering lip 
could speak. 

“ Is quite well, my dearest mother, and not five minutes’ ride 
behind me. The villagers would flock round us, with such an 
hurrah, I thought you must have heard it here ; so I left Bertie 
to play the agreeable, and promised to see them to-morrow, 
and galloped on here, for you know the day we left, I vowed 
that the first-born of my mother should have her first kiss.” 

“Still the same, Percy — not sobered yet, my boy?” said his 
mother, looking at him with a proud smile; for while the tone 
and manner were still the eager, fresh-feeling boy, the face and 
figure were that of the fine-growing, noble-looking man. 

“ Sobered! why, mother, I never intend to be,” he answered, 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


256 

joyously, as he alternately embraced his sisters, Miss Harcourt, 
and Ellen, who, fearing to attract notice, had emerged from her 
hiding-place; “if the venerable towers of that most wise and 
learned town, Oxford, and all the grave lectures and long faces 
of sage professors have failed to tame me, there can be no hope 
for my sobriety; but here comes Herbert, actually going it 
almost as fast as I did. Well done, my boy! Mother, that 
is all your doing; he feels your influence at this distance. 
Why, all the Oxonians would fancy the colleges must be tum¬ 
bling about their ears, if they saw the gentle, studious, steady 
Herbert Hamilton riding at such a rate.” He entered almost 
as his brother spoke; and though less boisterous, the intense 
delight it was to him to look in his mother’s face again, to be 
surrounded by all he loved, w T as as visible as Percy’s; and 
deep was the thankfulness of Mrs. Hamilton’s ever anxious 
heart, as she saw him looking so well — so much stronger than 
in his boyhood. The joy of that evening, and of very many 
succeeding days, was, indeed, great; though many to whom 
the sanctity and bliss of domestic affection are unknown, might 
fancy there was little to call for it; but to the inmates of Oak- 
wood it was real happiness to hear Percy’s wild laugh and his 
inexhaustible stories, calling forth the same mirth from his 
hearers — the very sound of his ever-bounding step, and his 
boisterous career from room to room, to visit, he declared, and 
rouse all the bogies and spirits that must have slept while he 
was away: Herbert’s quieter but equal interest in all that had 
been done, studied, read, even thought and felt, in his absence: 
the pride and delight of both in the accounts of Edward, Percy 
insisting that to have such a gallant fellow of a brother ought 
to make Ellen as lively and happy as Emmeline, who was 
blessed nearly in the same measure — looking so excessively 
mischievous as he spoke, that, though his sister did not at flrst 
understand the inference, it was speedily discovered, and called 
for a laughing attack on his outrageous self-conceit. Herbert 
more earnestly regretted to see Ellen looking as sad and pale 
as when she was quite a little girl, and took upon himself 
gently to reproach her for not being, or, at least, trying to make 
herself more cheerful, when she had so many blessings around 
her, and was so superlatively happy in having such a brave 
and noble-hearted brother. If he did not understand her man¬ 
ner as he spoke, both he and the less observant Percy were 
destined to be still more puzzled and grieved as a few weeks 
passed, and they at first fancied and then were quite sure that 
she -was completely altered, even in her manner to their mother. 


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Instead of being so gentle, so submissive, so quietly luippy to 
deserve the smallest sign of approval from Mrs. Hamilton, she 
now seemed completely to shrink from her, either in fear, or 
that she no longer cared either to please or to obey her. By 
imperceptible, but sure degrees, this painful conviction pressed 
itself on the minds of the whole party, even to the light-hearted, 
unsuspicious Emmeline, to whom it was so utterly incompre¬ 
hensible, that she declared it must be all fancy, and that they 
were all so happy that their heads must be a little turned. 

“ Even mamma’s ! ” observed Caroline, dryly. 

“ No; but she is the only sensible person among us, for she 
has not said any thing about it, and, therefore, I dare say does 
not even see that which we are making such a wonder about.” 

“ I do not agree with you, for I rather think she has both 
seen and felt it before either of us, and that because it so 
grieves and perplexea. her, she cannot speculate or even speak 
about it as we do. Time will explain it, I suppose, but it is 
very disagreeable.” 

It was, indeed, no fancy; but little could these young ob¬ 
servers, or even Mrs. Hamilton, suspect that which was matter 
of speculation or grief to them, was almost madness in its agony 
of torture to Ellen ; who, as weeks passed, and but very trifling 
returns for her trinkets were made her by Mrs. Langford, felt 
as if her brain must fail before she could indeed accomplish her 
still ardently desired plan, and give back the missing sum to 
Robert, without calling suspicion on herself. She felt to her¬ 
self as changed as she appeared to those that observed her; a 
black impenetrable pall seemed to have enveloped her heart 
and mind, closing up both, even from those affections, those 
pursuits, so dear to her before. She longed for some change 
from the dense impenetrable fog, even if it were some heavy 
blow — tangible suffering of the fiercest kind was prayed for, 
rather than the stagnation which caused her to move, act, and 
speak as if under some fatal spell, and look with such terror on 
the relation she had so loved, that even to be banished from 
her presence she imagined would be less agony, than to asso¬ 
ciate with her, as the miserable, guilty being she had become. 

Mrs. Hamilton watched and was anxious, but she kept both 
her observations and anxiety to herself, for she would not throw 
even a temporary cloud over the happiness of her children. A 
fortnight after the young men’s arrival, letters came most unex¬ 
pectedly from Mr. Hamilton, dated twelve days after he had 
left * and brought by a Scottish trader whom they had encoun¬ 
tered near the Shetland Isles, and who had faithfully forwarded 
22 * 


258 


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them from Edinburgh, as he had promised. The voyage had 
been most delightful, and they hoped to reach Feroein another 
week. He wrote in the highest terms of Morton; the comfort 
of such companionship, and the intrinsic worth of his character, 
which could never be known, until so closely thrown together. 

“ I may thank our Percy for this excellent friend,” he wrote. 
“ He tells me his brave and honest avowal of those verses, 
which had given him so 'much pain, attracted him more toward 
me and mine, than even my own efforts to obtain his friendship. 
Percy little thought when he so conquered himself the help he 
would give his father — so little do we know to what hidden 
good, the straightforward, honest performance of a duty, how¬ 
ever painful, may lead.” 

“ My father should thank you, mother, not me,” was Percy’s 
rejoinder, with a flushed cheek and eye sparkling with anima¬ 
tion, as his mother read the passage to him. 

“ No such thing, Percy; I will not have you give me all the 
merit of your good deeds. I did but try to guide you, my boy; 
neither the disposition to receive, nor the fruit springing from 
the seeds I planted, is from me.” 

“ They are, mother, more than you are in the least aware 
of! ” replied, he, with even more than his usual impetuosity, 
for they happened to be quite alone; “ I thought I knew all 
your worth before I went to Oxford, but I have mingled with 
the world now ; I have been, a silent listener and observer of 
such sentiments, such actions, as I know would naturally have 
been mine, and though in themselves perhaps of little moment, 
saw they led to irregularity, laxity of principle and conduct, 
which now I cannot feel as other than actual guilt; and what 
saved me from the same ? The principle which from my in¬ 
fancy you taught. I have questioned, led on in conversation, 
these young men to speak of their boyhood and their homes, 
and there were none guided, loved as I was; none whose pa¬ 
rents had so blended firmness with indulgence, as while my 
wild, free spirits were unchecked, prevented the ascendency of 
evil. I could not do as they did. Mother! love you more, 
perhaps, I cannot, but every time I join the world, fresh from 
this home sanctuary, I must bless and venerate you more ! To 
walk through this world with any degree of security, man must 
have principle based on the highest source; and that principle 
can only be instilled by the constant example of a mother and 
the associations of a home! ” Mrs. Hamilton could not an¬ 
swer, but — a very unusual sign of weakness with her—tears 
of the most intense happiness poured down on the cheek of her 


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259 


son, as in liis impetuosity he knelt before her, and ended his 
very unusually grave appeal by the same loving caresses he 
was wont to lavish on her, in his infancy and boyhood. 

The letters from Mr. Hamilton, of course, greatly increased 
the general hilarity, and the arrival of Mr. Grahame’s family 
about the same time, added fresh zest to youthful enjoyment. 
In the few months she spent at Moorlands, Annie actually con¬ 
descended to be agreeeble. Percy, and some of Percy’s boy¬ 
ish friends, now young men, as himself, were quite different to 
her usual society, and as she very well knew the only way to 
win Percy’s even casual notice was to throw off her affectation 
and superciliousness as much as possible, she would do so, and 
be pleasing to an extent that surprised Mrs. Hamilton, who, 
always inclined to judge kindly, hoped more regarding Annie 
than she had done yet. Little could her pure mind conceive 
that, in addition to the pleasure of flirting with Percy, Annie 
acted in this manner actually to throw her off her guard, and so 
give her a wider field for her machinations when Caroline 
should enter the London world; a time to which, from her 
thirteenth year, she had secretly looked as the opportunity to 
make Caroline so conduct herself, as to cover her mother with 
shame and misery, and bring her fine plans of education to 
failure and contempt. 

Mrs. Greville and Mary were also constantly at the Hall, or 
having their friends with them ; Herbert and Mary advancing 
in words or feelings not much farther than they had ever done 
as boy and girl, but still feeling and acknowledging to their 
mutual mothers that, next to them, they loved each other better 
- than all the world, and enjoyed, each other’s society more than 
any other pleasure which life could offer. Excursions by land 
or water, sometimes on horseback, sometimes in the carriages, 
constant little family reunions, either at Oakwood, Moorlands, 
or Greville Manor, passed days and evenings most delightfully, 
to all but Ellen, who did not dare stay at home as often as in¬ 
clination prompted, and whose forced gayety, when in society, 
did but increase the inward torture when alone. Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton had as yet refrained from speaking to her — still trying to 
believe she must be mistaken, and there really was nothing 
strange about her. One morning, however, about a month 
after the young men had been at home, her attention was un¬ 
avoidably arrested by hearing Percy gayly ask his cousin — 

“Nelly, Tiny wrote me such a description of your birthday 
watch, that I quite forgot, I have been dying to see it all the 
time I have been at home; show it me now, there’s a dear; it 


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cannot be much use to you, that’s certain, for I have never seen 
you take it from its hiding-place.” 

Ellen answered, almost inarticulately, it was not in her power 
to show it him. 

“Not in your power! You must be dreaming, Nell, as I think 
you are very often now. Why, what do you wear that chain, 
and seal and key for, if you have not your watch On too ? ” 

“ Where is your watch, Ellen ? and why, if you are not wear¬ 
ing it, do you make us suppose you are?” interrupted Mrs. 
Hamilton, startled out of all idea that Ellen was changed only 
in fancy. 

Ellen was silent, and to Percy’s imagination, so sullenly and 
insolently so, that he became indignant. 

“ Did you hear my mother speak to you, Ellen ? Why don’t 
you answer?” 

“Because I thought my watch was my own to do what I 
liked with, to wear or to put away,” was the reply; over nei¬ 
ther words nor tone of which, had she at that moment any con¬ 
trol, for in her agonized terror, she did not in the least know 
what she said. 

“ IIow dare you answer so, Ellen ? Leave the room, or ask 
my mother’s pardon at once,” replied Percy, his eyes flashing 
with such unusual anger, that it terrified her still more, and 
under the same kind of spell she was turning to obey him, with¬ 
out attempting the apology he demanded. 

“ Stay, Ellen; this extraordinary conduct must not go on any 
longer without notice on my part. I have borne with it, I fear, 
too long already. Leave us, my dear Percy; I would rather 
speak with your cousin alone.” 

“ I fear it will be useless, mother; what has come over Ellen 
I cannot imagine, but I never saw such an incomprehensible 
change in my life.” 

He departed, unconscious that Ellen, who was near the door 
transfixed at her aunt’s words, made a rapid movement as to 
catch hold of his arm, and that the words, “ Do not go, Percy, 
for pity’s sake! ” trembled on her pale lips, but they emitted no 
sound. 

What passed in the interview, which lasted more than an 
hour, no one knew; but to the watchful eyes of her affectionate 
children, there were traces of very unusual disturbance on Mrs. 
Hamilton’s expressive countenance when she rejoined them; 
and the dark rim round Ellen’s eyes, the deadly pallor of her 
cheeks and lips seemed to denote that it had not been deficient 
in suffering to her; though not one sign of penitence, one word 


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261 


of acknowledgment that she was, and had been for some weeks 
in error, by her extraordinary conduct — not even a softening 
tear could her aunt elicit. She had never before so foiled — 
never, not even when the disappearance of her allowance had 
caused extreme displeasure, had Ellen evinced such an ap¬ 
parently sullen spirit of determined hardihood. She would not 
attempt defence or reply to the acted falsehood with which she 
was charged, of appearing to wear her watch when she did not, 
or to say what she had done with it. Mrs. Hamilton spoke to 
her till she was almost exhausted, for her own disappointment 
was most painful, and she had not a gleam of hope to urge her 
on. Her concluding words were these — 

“That you are under the evil influence of some unconfessed 
and most heinous fault, Ellen, I am perfectly convinced; what 
it is time will reveal. I give you one month to decide on your 
course of action; subdue this sullen spirit, confess whatever 
error you may have been led into, and so change your conduct 
as to be again the child I so loved, spite of occasional faults and 
errors, and I will pardon all that is past. If, at the end of a 
month, I find you persisting in the same course of rebellion and 
defiance, regardless alike of your duty to your God and to me, I 
shall adopt some measures to compel submission. I had hoped 
to bring up all my children under my own eye, and by my own 
efforts; but if I am not permitted so to do, I know my duty too 
well to shrink from the alternative. You will not longer remain 
under my care; some severer guardian and more rigid discipline 
may bring you to a sense of your duty. I advise you to think 
well on this subject, Ellen; you know me too well, I think, to 
imagine that I speak in mere jest.” 

She had left the room as she spoke, so, that if Ellen had in¬ 
tended reply, there was no time for it. But she could not have 
spoken. Go from Oakwood, and in anger ! Yet it was but just; 
it was better, perhaps, than the lingering torture she was then 
enduring — better to hide her shame and misery among strangers, 
than remain among the good, the happy — the guilty wretch she 
was. She sat and thought till feeling itself became utterly ex¬ 
hausted, and again the spell, the stupor of indifference, crept 
over her. She would have confessed, but she knew that it could 
never satisfy, as the half confession she would have been com¬ 
pelled to make it, and the dread of herself, that she should 
betray her brother, sealed her lips. 

Robert’s story, and the strange disappearance of the notes, 
had of course been imparted to Percy and Herbert. In fact, 
the change in the young man,, from being as light-hearted as his 


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young master himself, to gravity and almost gloom — for the 
conviction of his master and mistress, as to his innocence, could 
not cheer him, while suspicion against him still actuated Morris, 
and many of the other servants — would have called the young 
men’s attention toward him at once. The various paths and 
glades between the Hall and Mrs. Langford’s cottage had been 
so searched, that unless the storm had destroyed them or blown 
the notes very far away, it seemed next to impossible, that they 
could not be found. Mr. Hamilton knew the number of each 
note, had told them to his wife, and gave notice at his banker’s 
that though he did not wish them stopped, he should like to 
know, if possible, when they had passed. No notice of such a 
thing had been sent to Oakwood, and it seemed curious that, if 
found and appropriated, they should not yet have been used, for 
ten weeks had now slipped away since their loss, and nearly 
nine since the letters had been sent to Edward and his captain, 
ansAvers to which had not yet been received ; but that was 
nothing remarkable, for Edward seldom wrote above once in 
three or four months. 

It was nearing the end of August, Avhen one afternoon Mrs. 
Hamilton Avas prevented joining her children in a sail up the 
Dart, though it had been a long promise, and Percy Avas, in 
consequence, excessively indignant; but certain matters relative 
to the steward’s province demanded a reference to his mistress, 
and Morris Avas compelled to request a longer interview than 
usual. Ellen had chosen to join the aquatic party, a decision 
now so contrary to her usual habits, that Mrs. Hamilton could 
not help fancying it was to prevent the chance of being any 
time alone with her. There had been no change in her man¬ 
ner, except a degree more care to control the disrespectful or 
pettish answer; but nothing to give hope that the spirit Avas 
changing, and that the hidden error, whatever it might be, 
Avould be acknoAvledged and atoned. Mrs. Hamilton was nerv¬ 
ing her OAvn mind for the performance of the alternative she 
had placed before her niece, passing many a sleepless night 
in painful meditations. If to send her from Oakwood Avere 
necessary, would it produce the effect she Avished ? Avith AA r hom 
could she place her ? and Avhat satisfactory reason could she 
assign for doing so? She kneAV there would be a hundred 
tongues to cry shame on her for sending her orphan niece from 
her roof, but that Avas but one scarcely-tasted bitter drop in the 
many other sources of anxiety. But still these Avere but her 
nightly sorroAvs ; she might have been paler Avhen she rose, but 
though her children felt quite sure that Ellen Avas grieving her 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


263 


exceedingly, her cheerful sympathy in their enjoyments and 
pursuits never waned for a moment. 

Morris left her at six o’clock, all his business so satisfactorily 
accomplished, that the old man was quite happy, declaring to 
Ellis, he had always thought his mistress unlike any one else 
before ; but such a clear head for reducing difficult accounts 
and tangled affairs to order, he had never imagined could either 
be possessed by, or was any business of, a woman. Not in the 
least aware of the wondering admiration she had excited, Mrs. 
Hamilton had called Robert and proceeded to the school-room 
to get a pattern of embroidery and a note, which Caroline had 
requested might be sent to Annie Grahame that evening; the 
note was on the table, but the pattern and some silks she had 
neglected to put up till her brothers were ready, and they so 
hurried her, that her mother had promised she would see to it 
for her. The embroidery box was in a panelled closet of the 
school-room, rather high up, and in taking especial care to bring 
it safely down, Robert loosened a desk from its equilibrium, 
and it fell to the ground with such force as to break into se¬ 
veral pieces, and scatter all its contents over the floor. It was 
Ellen’s ! the pretty rose-wood desk which had been her gift, 
that memorable New Year’s Eve, and was now the repository 
of her dread secret. It was actually in fragments, especially 
where the ink-stands and pens had been, and the spring broken, 
the secret drawer burst open, and all its contents'were dis¬ 
closed. Robert was much too concerned to think of any thing 
but his own extreme carelessness, and his mistress’s reprimand ; 
and he busied himself in hastily picking up the contents, and 
placing them carefully on the table, preparatory to their ar¬ 
rangement by Mrs. Hamilton in a drawer of the table which 
she was emptying for the purpose. She laid them carefully in, 
and was looking over a book of very nicely written French 
themes, glad there was at least one thing for which she might 
be satisfied with Ellen, when an exclamation — 

“Why, there is one of them! I am so glad,” and as sudden 
a stop and half-checked groan from Robert startled her. She 
looked inquiringly at him, but he only covered his face with 
one hand, while the other remained quite unconsciously cover¬ 
ing the secret drawer out of which the contents had not fallen, 
but were merely disclosed. 

“ What is the matter, Robert ? what have you found to cause 
such contradictory exclamations ? Speak, for God’s sake ! ” 
escaped from Mrs. Hamilton’s lips, for by that lightning touch 
of association, memory, thought, whatever it may be, which 


264 


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joins events together, and unites present with past, so that 
almost a life seems crowded in a moment, such a suspicion 
flashed upon her as to make her feel sick and giddy, and turn 
so unusually pale, as effectually to rouse Robert, and make him 
spring up to get her a chair. 

“Nothing, madam, indeed it can be nothing — I must be 
mistaken — I am acting like a fool this afternoon, doing the 
most unheard-of mischief, and then frightening you and myself 
at shadows.” 

“ This evasion will not do, Robert; give me the papers at 
which you were so startled.” 

He hesitated, and Mrs. Hamilton extended her hand to take 
them herself; but her hand and arm so shook, that to hide it 
from her domestic, she let it quietly drop by her side, and 
repeated her command in a tone that brooked no farther delay. 
He placed the little drawer and its contents in her hand, and, 
without a word withdrew into the farthest window. For full 
five, it might have been ten minutes, there was silence so deep, 
a pin-fall might have been louldly heard. It was broken by 
Mrs. Hamilton. 

“ Robert!” 

There was neither change nor tremor in the voice, but the 
fearful expression of forcibly-controlled suffering on her death¬ 
like countenance so awed and terrified him, he besought her, 
almost inarticulately, to let him fetch a glass of water — wine — 
something — 

“ It is not at all necessary, my good boy; I am perfectly 
well. This is, I. believe, the only note that can be identified 
as one of those you lost; these smaller ones (she pointed to 
three, of one, two, and four pounds each, which Ellen had re¬ 
ceived at long intervals from Mrs. Langford) have nothing to 
do with it ? ” 

“ No, madam, and that — that may not — ” 

“We cannot doubt it, Robert, I have its number; I need 
not detain you, however, any longer. *Take care of these 
broken fragments, and if they can be repaired, see that it is 
done. Here is Miss Hamilton’s note and parcel. I believe 
you are to wait for an answer, at all events inquire. I need 
not ask you to be silent on this discovery, till I have spoken to 
Miss Fortescue, or to trust my promise to make your innocence 
fully known.” 

“ Not by the exposure of Miss Ellen ! Oh, madam, this is 
but one of them, the smallest one — it may have come to her 
by the merest chance — see how stained it is with damp — for 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


265 


the sake of mercy, oh, madam, spare her and yourself too! ” 
and in the earnestness of his supplication Robert caught hold 
of her dress, hardly knowing himself how he had found courage 
so to speak. His mistress’s lips quivered. 

“ It is a kind thought, Robert, and if justice to you and 
mercy to the guilty can, by any extenuating clause unknown 
to me now, be united, trust me, they shall. Now go.” 

lie obeyed in silence, and still Mrs. Hamilton changed not 
that outward seeming of rigid calm. She continued to put 
every paper and letter away, (merely retaining the notes,) 
locked the drawer, took possession of the key, and then retired 
to her own room, where for half an hour she remained alone. 

It is not ours to lift the veil from that brief interval. We 
must have performed our task badly indeed, if our readers 
cannot so enter into the lofty character, the inward strivings 
and outward conduct of Mrs. Hamilton, as not to imagine more 
satisfactorily to themselves than we could write it, the heart¬ 
crushing agony of that one half hour; and anguish as it was, 
it did but herald deeper. There was not even partial escape 
for her, as there would have been, had her husband been at 
home. Examination of the culprit, whose mysterious conduct 
was so fatally explained, that she did not even dare hope this 
was the only missing note she had appropriated — compelled 
confession of the use to which it had been applied — public 
acknowledgment of Robert’s perfect truth and innocence, all 
crowded on her mind like fearfyl spectres of pain and misery, 
from which there could be no escape; and from whom did they 
spring ? Ellen! the child of her adoption, of her love; whose 
character she had so tried to mould to good; whose young life 
she had so sought to make happier than its earliest years; for 
whom she had so hoped, so prayed, so trusted; had borne with 
anxiety and care, tended in physical suffering with such untiring 
gentleness, such exhaustless love — and now! 


CHAPTER V. 

THE CULPRIT AND THE JUDGE. 


It was nearly seven when the young party returned, delighted 
as usual with their afternoon’s amusement; and Percy, shouting 
23 



266 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


loudly for his mother, giving vent to an exclamation of impa¬ 
tience at finding she was still invisible. 

“I shall wish Morris and all his concerns at the bottom of 
the Dart, if he is so to engross my mother when I want her,” 
he said, as he flung himself full length on a couch in the music- 
room, desiring Emmeline to make haste and disrobe, as he must 
have an air on the harp to soothe his troubled spirit. 

Herbert, to look for a poem, the beauty of which he had 
been discussing with Miss Harcourt during their sail, entered 
the library, but perceiving his mother, would have retreated, 
thinking her still engaged; but she looked up as the door 
opened, and perceiving him, smiled, and asked him if they had 
had a pleasant afternoon. He looked at her earnestly, without 
making any reply; then approaching her, took one of her hands 
in his, and said, fondly — 

“ Forgive me, dearest mother; I ought not, perhaps, to ask, 
but I am sure something is wrong. You are ill — anxious —- 
may I not share it ? Can I do nothing ? ” 

“Nothing, my Herbert; bless you for your watchful love — 
it is such comfort.” And the long pressure of the hand which 
so warmly clasped hers, the involuntary tenderness with which 
these few words were said, betrayed how much she needed 
such comfort at that moment; but she rallied instantly. “Do 
not look so anxious, dear boy, I am not ill — not quite happy, 
perhaps, but we know where to look for strength to bear trial, 
Herbert. Wait tea for me till eight o’clock; it is probable I 
may be engaged till then; ” and, satisfied that she did not wish 
to be more explicit, Herbert took his book, and somewhat sor¬ 
rowfully left her. 

Ten minutes more, and the massive door unclosed again, but 
no step advanced, for the intruder remained rooted where the 
door had closed. It was a very large and lofty room, with an 
arched and Gothic roof, of black and fretted oak, the walls and 
chimney-piece of the same material and most elaborate work¬ 
manship. A sort of dais, remnant of olden Times, divided the 
upper part of the room, by two or three steps, from the lower. 
On this dais was the raised reading-desk of superbly carved oak, 
at which Mr. Hamilton officiated morning and evening, and two 
library tables of more modern workmanship stood on each side, 
but rather lower down. Except the massive oaken chairs and 
couches, and three or four curious tables scattered about, and 
the well-filled book-cases, forming, to the height of five feet, 
the border, as it were, of the fretted wood-work of the walls, 
and filling up the niches formed by the windows; the lower 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


267 


part of the hall, two-thirds of the length, was comparatively 
unoccupied, showing its vast space and superb roof to still greater 
advantage. The magnificently staihed windows, one on the 
dais —a deep oriel— threw such subdued light into the room, 
as accorded well with its other appointments; but as evening 
advanced, gave it that sort of soft, holy light, which always 
impresses the spirit with a species of awe. 

We do not think it was that feeling alone which so over¬ 
powered the second intruder, as to arrest her, spell-bound, on the 
threshold. Mrs. Hamilton was seated at one of the tables on 
the dais nearest the oriel window, the light from which fell 
full on her, giving her figure, though she was seated naturally 
enough in one of the large, maroon velvet, oaken chairs, an 
unusual effect of dignity and command, and impressing the 
terrified beholder with such a sensation of awe, that, had her 
life depended on it, she could not for that one minute have gone 
forward; and even when desired to do so by the words — 

“ I desired your presence, Ellen, because I wished to speak 
to you ; come here without any more delay: ”— how she walked 
the whole length of that interminable room, and stood facing 
her aunt, she never knew. 

Mrs. Hamilton for a full minute did not speak, but she fixed 
that searching look, to which we have once before alluded, 
upon Ellen’s face; and then said, in a tone which, though very 
low- and calm, expressed as much as that earnest look — 

“ Ellen! is it necessary for me to tell you why you are here 

— necessary to produce the proof that my words are right, and 
that you have been influenced by the fearful effects of some un¬ 
confessed and most heinous sin ? Little did I dream its nature.” 

For a moment Ellen stood as turned to stone, as white and 
rigid — the next she had sunk down, with a wild, bitter cry at 
Mrs. Hamilton’s feet, and buried her face in her hands. 

“ Is it true — can it be true — that you, offspring of my own 
sister, dear to me, cherished by me as my own child — you have 
been the guilty one to appropriate, and conceal the appropria¬ 
tion of money, which has been a source of distress by its loss, 
and the suspicion thence proceeding, for the last seven weeks ? 

— that you could listen to your uncle’s words, absolving his 
whole household as incapable of a deed which was actual theft, 
and yet, by neither word nor sign, betray remorse or guilt? — 
could behold the innocent suffering the fearful misery of sus¬ 
picion, loss of character, without the power of clearing himself, 
and stand calmly, heedlessly by — only proving by your hard¬ 
ened and rebellious temper that all was not right within — 
Ellen, can this be true?” 


268 


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“Yes!” was the reply, but with such a fearful effort, that 
her slight frame shook as with an ague; “ thank God, that it 
is known! I dared not bring down the punishment on myself, 
but I can bear it.” 

“ This is mere mockery, Ellen; how dare I believe even this 
poor evidence of repentance, with the recollection of your past 
conduct? What were the notes you found?” 

Ellen named them. 

“ Where are they ? — This is but one, and the smallest.” 

Ellen’s answer was scarcely audible. 

“Used them — and for what?” 

There was no answer, neither then, nor when Mrs. Hamilton 
sternly reiterated the question. She then demanded — 

“ How long have they been in your possession ? ” 

“ Five or six weeks; ” but the reply was so tremulous, it 
carried no conviction with it. 

“ Since Robert told his story to your uncle, or before ? ” 

“ Before.” 

“Then your last answer was a falsehood, Ellen; it is full 
seven weeks since my husband addressed the household on the 
subject. You could not have so miscounted time, with such a 
deed to date by. Where did you find them?” 

Ellen described the spot. 

“And what business had you there? You know that neither 
you nor your cousins are ever allowed to go that way to Mrs. 
Langford’s cottage, and more especially alone. If you wanted 
to see her, why did you not go the usual way? And when was 
this ? — you must remember the exact day. Your memory is 
not in general so treacherous.” 

Again Ellen was silent. 

“Have you forgotten it?” 

She crouched lower at her aunt’s feet, but the answer was 
audible — 

“No.” 

“Then answer me, Ellen, this moment, and distinctly; for 
what purpose were you seeking Mrs. Langford’s cottage by that 
forbidden path, and when?” 

“ I wanted money, and I went to ask her to take my trinkets 
— my watch, if it must be — and dispose of them as I had read 
of others doing, as miserable as I was; and the wind blew the 
notes to my very hand, and I used them. I was mad then — I 
have been mad since, I believe; but I would have returned the 
whole amount to Robert, if I could but have parted with my 
trinkets in time.” 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


269 


To describe the tone of utter despair, the recklessness as to 
the effect her words would produce, is impossible. Every word 
increased Mrs. Hamilton’s bewilderment and misery. To sup¬ 
pose that Ellen did not feel was folly. It was the very depth 
of wretchedness which was crushing her to the earth, but every 
answered and unanswered question but deepened the mystery, 
and rendered her judge’s task more difficult. 

“And when was this, Ellen ? I will have no more evasion — 
tell me the exact day.” 

But she asked in vain. Ellen remained moveless, and silent 
as the dead. 

After several minutes, Mrs. Hamilton removed her hands 
from her face, and compelling her to lift up her head, gazed 
searchingly on her deathlike counteijance for some moments 
in utter silence, and then said, in a tone that Ellen never in her 
life forgot — 

“ You cannot imagine, Ellen, that this half-confession will 
either satisfy me, or in the smallest degree redeem your sin. 
One and one only path is open to you; for all that you have 
said and left unsaid but deepens your apparent guilt, and so 
blackens your conduct, that I can scarcely believe I am ad¬ 
dressing the child I so loved—and .could still so love, if but 
one real sign be given of remorse and penitence — one hope of 
returning truth. But that sign, that hope can only be a full 
confession. Terrible as is the guilt of appropriating so large a 
sum, granted it came by the merest chance into your hand; 
dark as is the additional sin of concealment when an innocent 
person was suffering — something still darker, more terrible, 
must be concealed behind it, or you would not, could not, con¬ 
tinue thus obdurately silent. I can believe that under some- 
heavy pressure of misery, some strong excitement, the sum 
might have been used without thought, and that fear might have 
prevented the confession of any thing so dreadful; but what was 
this heavy necessity for money, this strong excitement ? What 
fearful and mysterious difficulties have you been led into to 
call for either ? Tell me the truth, Ellen, the whole truth; let 
me have some hope of saving you and myself the misery of 
publicly declaring you the guilty one, and so proving Robert’s 
innocence. Tell me what difficulty, what misery so maddened 
you, as to demand the disposal of your trinkets. If there be 
the least excuse, the smallest possibility of your obtaining in 
time forgiveness, I will grant it. I will not believe you so 
utterly fallen. I will do all I can to remove error, and yet to 
prevent suffering; but to win this, I must have a full confes- 
23 * 


270 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


sion — every question that I put to you must be clearly and 
satisfactorily answered, and so bring back the only comfort to 
yourself, and hope to me. Will you do this, Ellen ? ” 

“ Oh, that I could! ” was the reply in such bitter anguish, 
Mrs. Hamilton actually shuddered. “But I cannot — must 
not — dare not. Aunt Emmeline, hate me, condemn me to 
the severest, sharpest suffering; I wish for it, pine for it: you 
cannot loathe me more than I do myself, but do not — do not 
speak to me in these kind tones — I cannot bear them. It 
was because I knew what a wretch I am, that I have so 
shunned you, I was not worthy to be with you; oh, sentence 
me at once! I dare not answer as you wish.” 

“ Dare not! ” repeated Mrs. Hamilton, more and more be¬ 
wildered, and, to conceal the emotion Ellen’s wild words and 
agonized manner had produced, adopting greater sternness. 
u You dare commit a sin, from which the lowest of my house¬ 
hold would shrink in horror, and yet tell me you dare not 
make the only atonement, give me the only proof of real peni¬ 
tence I demand. This is a weak and wicked subterfuge, Ellen, 
and will not pass with me. There can be no reason for this 
fearful obduracy, not even the consciousness of greater guilt, 
for I promise forgiveness, if it be possible, on the sole condi¬ 
tion of a full confession. Once more, will you speak ? Your 
hardihood will be utterly useless, for you cannot hope to con¬ 
quer me; and if you permit me to leave you with your con¬ 
duct still clothed in this impenetrable mystery, you will compel 
me to adopt measures to subdue that defying spirit, which will 
expose you and myself to intense suffering, but which must 
force submission at last.” 

“ You cannot inflict more than I have endured the last seven 
weeks,” murmured Ellen, almost inarticulately. “ I have borne 
that, I can bear the rest.” 

“ Then you will not answer ? You are resolved not to tell 
me the day on which you found that money, the use to which 
it was applied, the reason of your choosing that forbidden 
path, permitting me to believe you guilty of heavier sins than 
may be the case in reality. Listen to me, Ellen; it is more 
than time this interview should cease, but I will give you one 
chance more. It is how half-past seven ” — she took the watch 
from her neck and laid it on the table — “I will remain here 
one half-hour longer: by that time this sinful temper may have 
passed away, and you will consent to give me the confession I 
demand. I cannot believe you so altered in two months as to 
choose obduracy and misery, when pardon, and in time con- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


271 


fidence and love, are offered in their stead. Get up from that 
crouching posture, it can be but mock humility, and so only 
aggravates your sin.” 

Ellen rose slowly and painfully, and seating herself at the 
table, some distance from her aunt, leaned her arms upon it, 
and buried her face within them. Never before, and never after 
did half an hour appear so interminable to either Mrs. Hamilton 
or Ellen. It was well for the firmness of the former, perhaps, 
that she could not read the heart of that young girl, even if the 
cause of its anguish had been still concealed. Again and again 
did the wild longing, turning her actually faint and sick with 
its agony, come over her to reveal the whole, to ask but rest 
and mercy for herself, pardon and security for Edward; but 
then clear, as held before her in letters of fire, she read every 
word of her brother’s desperate letter, particularly “ Breathe 
it to my uncle or aunt, for if she knows it he will, and you will 
never see me more.” Her mother, pallid as death, seemed to 
stand before her, freezing confession on her heart and lips, look¬ 
ing at her threateningly, as she had so often seen her, as if the 
very thought were guilt. The rapidly advancing twilight, the 
large and lonely room, all added to that fearful illusion, and if 
Ellen did succeed in praying, it was with desperate fervor, for 
strength not to betray her brother. If ever there were a martyr 
spirit, it was enshrined in that young, frail form. 

But how could Mrs. Hamilton imagine this ? How could 
her wildest fancy bring Edward — the brave, happy, eager Ed¬ 
ward, of whom captain, officers, and crew wrote in such terms 
of praise and admiration, who had never given cause for anxi¬ 
ety, and who was so far distant — as the uniting link to this 
terrible mystery ? Was it not more natural that he should not 
enter the incongruous and painful thoughts floating through her 
brain, save as her last resource, by his influence, to obtain the 
truth from Ellen ? The more she thought, the more agonizing 
her thoughts became ; what could induce this determined silence, 
but a conviction of deeper guilt, and what could that guilt be ? 
The most terrible suspicions crossed her mind ; she had heard, 
though she had scarcely believed in them, of entanglements, 
even where the guardianship had been most rigid. Could one 
so young, seemingly so innocent, have fallen into the power of 
some desperate character, who was working on her thus ? How 
could she be sure she intended to take her trinkets to Mrs. 
Langford ? Her choosing that forbidden path which was never 
by any chance trodden by the family or their friends, her con¬ 
stant desire lately not to join them in their excursions, prefer- 


272 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


ring, and often finding some excuse to remain alone — all came 
to Mrs. Hamilton’s mind, with such an overpowering sensation 
of dread and misery, that the worst guilt Ellen could have 
avowed would scarcely have been worse than anticipation 
pictured; and yet every thought was so vague, every fancy so 
undefined — there was nothing she could grasp at as a saving 
hope, or in the remotest degree excusing cause ; such obdurate 
silence in one so young, generally so yielding, could and must 
conceal nothing but still more fearful sin. The darkness which 
had gathered round them, save the brightening light of the 
harvest moon, suddenly awakened her to the lapse of time. 
The moonlight fell full on the face of the watch, which was a 
repeater. It wanted but three minutes more, and Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton watched the progress of the hand with such sickening dread, 
that when it reached the hour, she had scarcely strength to 
strike it, and so give notice — for words she had none — that 
the hour of grace had passed. But she conquered the power¬ 
lessness, and those soft chimes, which, when Ellen first came to 
Oakwood, had been such a constant source of childish wonder 
and delight, now rang in her ears louder, hoarser, more fear¬ 
fully distinct, than even those of the ancient time-piece in the 
hall, which at the same moment rang out the hour of eight. 

The sound ceased, and with heightened dignity, but in per¬ 
fect silence, Mrs. Hamilton rose, passed her niece, and had 
nearly reached the door, when she paused, and turned toward 
Ellen, as if irresolute. Ellen’s eyes had watched her as in 
fascination, and the pause endowed her with just sufficient 
power to spring forward, fling herself at her aunt’s feet, and 
clasping her knees with all her little remaining strength, pas¬ 
sionately implore — 

“Aunt Emmeline, aunt Emmeline, speak to me but one 
word, only one word of kindness before you go. I do not ask 
for mercy, there can be none for such a wretch as I am; I will 
bear without one complaint, one murmur, all you may inflict — 
you cannot be too severe. Nothing can be such agony as the 
utter loss of your affection ; I thought, the last two months, that 
I feared you so much that it was all fear, no love, but now, 
now that, you know my sin, it has all, all come back to make 
me still more wretched.” And before Mrs. Hamilton could 
prevent, or was in the least aware of her intention, Ellen had 
obtained possession of one of her hands, and was covering it 
with kisses, while her whole frame shook with those convulsed, 
but completely tearless sobs. 

“ Will you confess, Ellen, if I stay ? Will you give me the 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


273 


proof that it is such agony to lose my affection, that you do 
love me as you profess, and that it is only one sin which has 
so changed you ? One word, and, tardy as it is, I will listen, 
and, if I can, forgive.” 

Ellen made no answer, and Mrs. Hamilton’s newly-raised 
hopes vanished ; she waited full two or three minutes, then 
gently disengaged her hand and dress from Ellen’s still convul¬ 
sive grasp ; the door closed, with a sullen, seemingly unwilling 
sound, and Ellen was alone. She remained in the same pos¬ 
ture, the same spot, till a vague, cold terror so took possession 
of her, that the room seemed filled with ghostly shapes, and all 
the articles of furniture suddenly transformed to things of life ! 
and springing up, with the wild, fleet step of fear, she paused 
not till she found herself in her own room, where flinging her¬ 
self on her bed, she buried her face on her pillow, to shut out 
every object — oh, how she longed to shut out thought! 

It was sucli a different scene, such a fulness of innocent joy, 
on which Mrs. Hamilton entered, that though she thought her¬ 
self nerved to control all visible emotion, the contrast almost 
overpowered her; knowing, too, that the fatal effects of one 
person’s sin must banish that innocent enjoyment, and would 
fall on them all as some fearful, joy-destroying blow. The 
room, one of the least spacious, was cheerfully lighted, the urn 
hissing upon the table, at which Caroline, as usual, was presid¬ 
ing, only waiting for her mother’s appearance, to satisfy Percy, 
who was loudly declaring he was famished in two senses — for 
want of his mother’s company, and of some restorative for his 
craving appetite. He was lounging on the sofa, playing with 
Emmeline’s flowing ringlets, as she sat on a low stool by his 
side, chatting with him, in as discursive a strain as his fancy 
willed. Herbert and Miss Harcourt were still in earnest dis¬ 
cussion on their poem, from which Herbert was occasionally 
reading aloud such beautiful passages, and with such richness 
of intonation, and variety of expression, that Caroline, and even 
Percy and Emmeline, would pause involuntarily to listen. 

“At length ! ” exclaimed Percy/, springing up, as did Herbert 
at the same moment, to get their mother a chair, and place her 
comfortably as usual in the midst of them. “ Mother, I really 
did begin to think you intended to punish my impatience by not 
joining us at all to-night.” 

“ I did not know you were impatient, my dear boy, or per¬ 
haps I might have done so ! ” was her quiet, and even smiling 
reply. “ I fear, indeed, waiting for me so long after a water- 
excusion, must have caused you to be impatient in another 
sense.” * 


274 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


“ What! that we must be all famished ? I assure you, we 
are, and the loss of your society sharpened the pangs of hunger. 

I owe Morris a grudge, and will certainly serve him out one 
day, for detaining you so long when I wanted you.” 

“ It was not Morris that detained me,” answered Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton, somewhat hurriedly. “I had done with him by six 
o’clock; but come, tell me something about your excursion,” 
she added, evidently anxious to elude farther remark, and per¬ 
ceiving at once that Miss Harcourt and Herbert both looked at 
her very anxiously. “ How did your boat go, and how did 
Caroline’s voice and your flute sound on the water, Percy ? 
Herbert, I see, has found poetry, as usual, and made Miss Har¬ 
court his companion ; you must tell me what verses our beauti¬ 
ful river recalled this afternoon ; and you, Emmy, have you any 
more sketches to fill up ? ” 

Her children eagerly entered on their day’s enjoyment — 
Herbert conquering his anxiety, to emulate his mother’s calm¬ 
ness, but Miss Harcourt had been too painfully startled by the 
unusual expression of forcibly-controlled suffering on her friend’s 
face, to do so with any success. Nearly an hour, however, 
passed animatedly as usual; each found so much to tell, and 
Percy was in such wild spirits, that it was utterly impossible for 
there to be any thing like a pause. Tea had always been a 
favorite meal at Oakwood, as bringing all the family together 
after the various business of the day, and it continued to be so. 
They had lingered over it as usual, when Caroline suddenly 
exclaimed — 

“ What has become of Ellen ? I had quite forgotten her till 
this moment; how neglectful she will think us ! Do ring the 
bell, Percy, that we may send and let her know.” 

“ If she has no recollection of meal-time, I really think we 
need not trouble ourselves about her,” was Percy’s half-jesting, 
half-earnest reply, for Ellen’s changed manner to his mother 
had made him more angry with her, and for a longer time 
together, than he had ever been with anybody, especially a 
woman, in his life. He stretched out his hand, however, to ring 
the bell, but Mrs. Hamilton stopped him. 

“ You need not, Percy ; your cousin will not wish to join us,” ■ 
she said; and her tone was now so expressive of almost an¬ 
guish, that every one of that happy party startled and looked 
at her with the most unfeigned alarm, and Percy, every thought 
of jest and joyousness checked, threw his arms round her, ex¬ 
claiming — 

“ Mother, dearest! what has happened ! — that unhappy girl 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


275 


again! I am sure it is. Why do you not cast her off from 
your heart at once; she will bring you nothing but sorrow for 
all your love.” 

“ Percy, how can you be so harsh ? — how unlike you ! ” 
exclaimed Emmeline, indignantly, as Mrs. Hamilton’s head, for 
a few minutes of natural weakness, sunk on her son’s encircling 
arm. “ We have all given mamma trouble and pain enough 
one time or other, and what would have become of us if she 
had cast us oft? and Ellen has no mother, too — for shame ! ” 

“ Hush! ” answered Percy, almost sternly, for there were 
times when he could quite throw off the boy. “ This is no 
light or common matter, to affect my mother thus. Shall we 
send for Mr. Howard, mother ? ” he continued, fondly; “ in my 
father’s absence he is your ablest friend — we can only feel, not 
counsel.” 

But there are times when feeling can aid in bringing back 
control and strength, when counsel alone would seem so harsh 
and cold, we can only w r eep before it; and the fond affection 
of her children, the unusual assumption of protecting manliness 
in Percy, so touchingly united with the deep respect that pre¬ 
vented the least intrusive question as to the cause of her distress 
till she chose to reveal it, gave her power to send back the tears 
that had escaped at first so hot and fast, and though still holding 
his hand, as if its very pressure was support, she was enabled 
calmly to relate the fatal discovery of that evening. Its effect 
was, in truth, as if a thunderbolt had fallen in the midst of 
them. An execration, forcibly checked, but passionate as his 
nature, burst from the lips of Percy, as he clasped his arm 
close round his mother, as thus to protect her from the misery 
he felt himself. Herbert, with a low cry of pain, buried his 
face in his hands. Caroline, shocked and bewildered, but her 
first thought for her mother, could only look at, and feel for her, 
quite forgetting that her every prejudice against Ellen did in¬ 
deed seem fulfilled. Emmeline at first looked stunned, then 
sinking down at Mrs. Hamilton’s feet, hid her face on her lap, 
and sobbed with such uncontrolled violence, that it might have 
seemed as if she herself, not Ellen, were the guilty cause of all 
this misery. Miss Harcourt, like Caroline, could only think 
and feel for Mrs. Hamilton ; for she knew so well all the hope, 
interest, and love which Ellen had excited, and what must be 
the bitter suffering of this fearful disappointment. 

“ Do not weep thus, love,” Mrs. Hamilton said, addressing 
Emmeline, after nearly a quarter of an hour had passed, and 
the various emotions of each individual had found vent in words 


27G 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


well illustrative of their respective characters; all but Emmeline, 
who continued to sob so painfully, that her mother successfully 
forgot her own sorrow to comfort her. “ Ellen is still very 
young, and though she is giving us all this misery and disap¬ 
pointment now, she may become all we can wish her, by-and-by. 
We must not give up all hope, because now all my cares seem 
so blighted. There is some fatal mystery attached to her con¬ 
duct ; for I am indeed deceived if she is not very wretched, and 
there is some hope in that.” 

“ Then why does she not speak ? ” rejoined Percy, impetuous¬ 
ly ; for when he found his mother resuming control and firmness, 
he had given vent to his indignation by striding hastily up and 
down the room. “What but the most determined hardihood 
and wickedness can keep her silent, when you promise forgive¬ 
ness if she will but speak ? What mystery can there, or ought 
there, to be about her, when she has such an indulgent friend 
as yourself to bring all her troubles to ? Wretched! I hope 
she is, for she deserves to be, if it were only for her base in¬ 
gratitude.” 

“ Percy! dear Percy! do not speak and judge so very 
harshly,” interposed Herbert, with deep feeling; “there does, 
indeed, seem no excuse for her conduct, but if we ever should 
find that there is some extenuating cause, how unhappy we 
shall be for having judged her still more harshly than she 
deserved.” 

“ It is impossible we can do that,” muttered Percy, continu¬ 
ing his angry walk. “ Nothing but guilt can be the cause of 
her keeping any thing from my mother. Ellen knows, as we 
all know, that even error, when confessed, has always been for¬ 
given, sorrow always soothed, and every difficulty removed. 
What can her silence spring from, then, but either defying 
obstinacy or some blacker sin ? ” 

“ It does seem like it, unhappily,” rejoined Caroline, but very 
sorrowfully, not at all as if she triumphed in her own previous 
penetration; “but she cannot persevere in it long. Dear 
mamma, do not look so distressed: it is impossible she can 
resist you for any length of time.” 

“ She has resisted every offer of kindness, my dear child, 
and it is the difficulty as to what course to pursue, to compel 
submission and confession, that so grieves and perplexes me.” 

“Let me seek Mr. Howard, dearest mother,” answered Her¬ 
bert ; “ he is so good, so kind, even in his severest judgments, 
that I really think Ellen will scarcely be able to persevere in 
her mistaken silence, if he speak to her.” * 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


277 


Mrs. Hamilton paused for some moments in thought. 

“ I believe you are right, Herbert. If I must have counsel 
out of my own family, I cannot go to a kinder, wiser, or more 
silent friend. If the fearful shame which I must inflict on 
Ellen to-night of proving Robert’s innocence before my whole 
household, by the denouncement of her guilt, have no effect in 
softening-her, I will appeal to him.” 

“ Oh, mamma, must this be — can you not, will you not 
spare her this ? ” implored Emmeline, clinging to her mother, 
in passionate entreaty; “ it would kill me, I know it would. 
Do not — do not expose her to such shame.” 

“ Do you think it is no suffering to my mother to be called 
upon to do this, Emmeline, that you add to it by this weak in¬ 
terference ? ” replied Percy, sternly, before his mother could 
reply. “ Shame! she has shamed us all enough. There 
wants little more to add to it.” 

But Emmeline’s blue eyes never moved from her mother’s 
face, and Miss Harcourt, longing to spare Mrs. Hamilton the 
suffering of such a proceeding, tried to persuade her 4o evade 
it, but she did not succeed. 

“ One word of confession — one evidence that her sin ori¬ 
ginated in a momentary temptation, that it conceals nothing 
darker — one real proof of penitence, and God knows how 
gladly I would have spared myself and her; but as it is, Lucy, 
Emmeline, do not make my duty harder.” 

Few as these words were, the tone that spoke them was 
enough. No more was said, and Mrs. Hamilton tried, but with 
very little success, to turn her children’s thoughts to other and 
pleasanter things. Time seemed to lag heavily, and yet when 
the prayer-bell sounded, it fell on every heart as some fearful 
knell which must have been struck too soon. 

All were assembled in the library, and in their respective 
places, all but one, and Herbert waited her appearance. 

“Tell Miss Fortescue that we are only waiting for her to 
commence prayers;” and Fanny, the young ladies’ attendant, 
departed to obey, wondering at Miss Ellen’s non-appearance, 
but hearing nothing unusual in her mistress’s voice. She re¬ 
turned, but still they waited; again the door unclosed, and 
Emmeline bent forward in an attitude of agony and shame, 
unable even to look at her cousin, whose place was close beside 
her; but the words she dreaded came not then — Herbert, at 
his mother’s sign, commenced the service, and it proceeded as 
usual. The fearful struggle in Mrs. Hamilton’s gentle bosom, 
who might read, save the all-pitying God, whom she so fer- 
24 


278 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


vently addressed for strength and guidance ? The voice of her 
son ceased, and the struggle was over. 

“ Before we part for the night,” she said, when all but one 
had arisen, “ it is necessary that the innocent should be so justi¬ 
fied before you all, that he should no longer be injured by 
suspicion and avoidance. It is nearly two months since your 
master assured you of his own and of my perfect conviction 
that Robert Langford had told the truth, and that the missing 
notes had been unfortunately lost by him; not appropriated, as 
I fear most of you have believed, and are still inclined to do. 
The complete failure of every search for them has induced a 
very uncomfortable feeling among you all as to the person on 
whom suspicion of finding and appropriating them might fall, 
none but the household frequenting that particular path, and 
none being able to suppose that the storm could have so dis¬ 
persed as to lose all trace of them. I acknowledge it was 
unlikely, but not so unlikely as that Robert Langford should 
ha\\e failed in honesty, or that any of my household should have 
appropriated or concealed them. All mystery is now, how- 
"ever, at an end; the missing notes have been traced and found; 
and that all suspicion and discomfort may be removed from 
among you, it becomes my duty to designate the individual 
who has thus transgressed every duty to God and man, not by 
the sin alone ; but by so long permitting the innocent to suffer 
for the guilty, more especially as that individual is one of my 
own family” — for one moment she paused, whether to gain 
strength, or to give more force to her concluding words, no one 
could tell — “ Ellen Foutescue ! ” 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE SENTENCE, AND ITS EXECUTION. 

The excitement which reigned in the servants’ hall, after 
they had withdrawn, in the most respectful silence, from the 
library, was extreme. Robert, utterly unable to realize relief 
in this proof of his own innocence, could only pace the hall in 
agony, deploring his mad carelessness, which, by exposing to 
temptation, had caused it all; and Morris and Ellis deepened 
the remorse by perfectly agreeing with him. Before they sepa- 



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rated, the old steward called them all together; and, his voice 
trembling with agitation, the tears actually running down his 
furrowed cheeks, told them that even as their mistress had done 
her duty to the utmost, ay, more than the utmost by them — for 
it must have well-nigh broken her heart to do it — a solemn duty 
was demanded from them to her, and that if either man, woman, 
or child failed in it, he should know that they had neither feel¬ 
ing, honor, nor gratitude in their hearts, and deserved and 
should be scouted by them all; and that duty was never to let 
the event of that night pass their lips, even to each other. It 
was enough that all mystery and suspicion had been taken from 

them, and that time would clear up the remainder ; he never 
would believe the grandchild of his mistress’s father, one she 
had so loved and cared for, could wilfully act as appearances 
seemed to say; that he was sure, one day or other, they would 
all find there was much more to pity than to blame ; and till 

then, if they had the least spark of generous or grateful feeling, 
they would forget the whole affair, and only evince their sense 
of their mistress’s conduct, by yet greater respect and attention 
to their respective duties. 

The old man’s speech was garrulous, and perhaps often 
faulty in grammar, but it came from the heart, and so went to 
the heart at once, and not one held back from the pledge of 
silence he demanded. There are some who imagine that the 
refinement of feeling which alone could actuate Morris’s speech, 
and its warm and immediate response, is only to be found 
among the educated and the rich; how little those who thus 
suppose understand the human heart! Kindness begets kind¬ 
ness ; and if superiors will but think of, and seek the happiness, 
temporal and eternal, of their inferiors — will but prove that 
they are considered as children of one common Father — there 
needs no equality of rank to create equality of happiness, or 
equality of refined, because true feeling. 

The next morning, when Mrs. Hamilton had occasion to 
speak to Morris about some farm receipts, which had not been 
forthcoming the preceding day, she recalled him as he was 
departing; but the words she had to say seemed unusually 
difficult, for her voice audibly faltered, and her face was com¬ 
pletely shaded by her hand. It was simply to ask that which 
Morris’s loving reverence had already done; and when the old 
man, in those earnest accents of heartfelt respect and kindness, 
which never can be mistaken, related what had passed, his 
mistress hastily extended her hand to him, saying, in a tone he 
never forgot — 


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“ God bless you, Morris ! I ought to have known your love 
for your master’s house would have urged this, without any re¬ 
quest from me. I cannot thank you enough.” The kiss he 
ventured to press upon the delicate hand which pressed his 
rough palm, was not unaccompanied, though he did force back 
the tear, and most respectfully, yet very earnestly, beseech his 
mistress not to take on too much. There must be some cause, 
some mystery; no one belonging to her could so have acted 
without some very fearful temptation, some very powerful rea¬ 
son, and it would all come straight one day. 

But whatever the future, the present was only suffering; for, 
to obtain a full confession from Ellen, Mrs. Hamilton felt so 
absolutely incumbent on her, that she steadily refused to listen 
to either pity or affection, which could shake her firmness ; and 
the opinion and advice of Mr. Howard strengthened the deter¬ 
mination. He had a private interview with Ellen, but it was 
attended with so very little success, that he left her far more 
bewildered and grieved than he had sought her ; but fully con¬ 
vinced it was mere hardihood and obstinacy, which caused her 
incomprehensible and most guilty silence. Not even allowing, 
as Mrs. Hamilton had, that there was any evidence of misery 
and remorse; perhaps she had been more quiet, more resolutely 
calm, and if it had not been for the strong appearances against 
her, he surely must have seen it was the strength and quiet of 
despair, not the defiance he believed. 

“ This rebellious spirit must be conquered,” he said, on rejoin¬ 
ing Mrs. Hamilton, who, with her children and Miss Harcourt, 
had most anxiously and yet hopefully awaited the result of his 
interference. “We should actually be sharing her sin, if we 
permit her to conquer us by obduracy and self-will. Solitary 
confinement and complete idleness may bring her to a better 
temper, and, in fact, should be persisted in, till a full confession 
be made. If that fail, my dear Mrs. Hamilton, your niece 
should be banished from Oakwood. She must not remain here, 
a continual source of anxiety and misery to you, and of success¬ 
ful hardihood to herself; but of that there will be time enough 
to think when you have an answer from Mr. Hamilton; his 
judgment from a distance may be wiser than ours on the spot, 
and irritated as we are by such unaccountable obstinacy in one 
we have always thought almost too yielding.” 

And it was this incomprehensible change of character, in 
seeming, that still more perplexed Mrs. Hamilton, and so made 
her believe there must be some worse fault, or dangerous 
entanglement, demanding such resolute pertinacity in conceal¬ 
ment. 


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Closely connected with Ellis’s private apartments, and having 
neither inlet nor outlet, save through the short passage opening 
from her sitting-room, were two small but not uncomfortable 
apartments, opening one into the other, and looking out on a 
very pretty but quite unfrequented part of the park. They had 
often been used when any of Ellis’s children or grandchildren 
came to see her, and were in consequence almost sufficiently 
habitable, without any further preparation, except the turning 
one into a sitting-room, which Ellis’s active care speedily ac¬ 
complished. Her mistress inspected them, at her desire, sug¬ 
gested one or two additional comforts, and then held a long 
confidential conversation with her. She had such perfect con¬ 
fidence in her (for Ellis had been from a child — married, and 
become mother and widow, and married her children — all as an 
inmate of the Hamilton family, and had held the confidential 
post of housekeeper for sixteen years) that she did not hesitate 
one moment to commit Ellen entirely to her care, at least till 
she could receive an answer about her from her husband. She 
depended on her to watch over her health, to see that she took 
daily exercise with her, in those parts of the park where she 
was not likely to attract notice, as being with her instead of with 
any member of her family, and that she took her regular meals; 
to be with her whenever she took them, and at casual times in 
the day, not so as to remove the impression of solitude and dis¬ 
grace, but to be enabled to watch her closely, and the least 
symptom of a softening spirit to report instantly to her. 

“ She will, of course, join us in the hours of devotion, though 
not occupying her usual place, for she who has lowered herself, 
in the sight of God and man, beneath the humblest of my do¬ 
mestics, may no longer kneel above them,” she said in conclu¬ 
sion. “But of my determination on the point she is already 
aware; and she will go with us as usual to church; I will have 
no remark made, further than I can avoid. Be as kind to her 
as you can, Ellis, consistent with your character as a wise and 
watchful guardian. God in mercy grant that her heart may 
be so softened, that you will not fill that painful position long. 
And now to see her.” 

But Percy’s watchful care had so quietly interposed, that his 
mother found herself in their usual sitting-room, and in the midst 
of them all, before she could seek Ellen: and when, with half 
reproach, she told him, that she had still a most painful duty to 
accomplish, therefore he ought not to have prevented it, he an¬ 
swered impetuously —■ 

“ Mother, you shall not see Ellen any more alone! she has 

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made you miserable enough already, and each time that she 
sees you, her deceitful appearance of remorse and suffering, for 
they cannot be real, or she would speak, but add to it; send for 
her here, and tell her your decision before us all.” 

And Mrs. Hamilton complied, for she felt as if her firmness 
would be less likely to fail, than if Ellen attempted any thing 
like supplication with her alone. But not a word of supplica¬ 
tion came. Ellen had answered the summons, by quietly ac¬ 
companying Ellis, who had been sent for her, to her aunt’s pre¬ 
sence, pale, indeed, as marble, but so tearless and still, as to 
seem unmoved. An expression of actual relief stole over her 
features as she heard her sentence, undisturbed even when told 
that this would only be, till Mr. Hamilton’s sentence came; as, 
if she continued silent until then, of course whatever severer 
measures he might dictate would be instantly obeyed. But 
when Mrs. Hamilton proceeded to say that she intended writ¬ 
ing the whole affair to Edward, that his influence might awaken 
her to a sense of the fearfully aggravated guilt she was incurring 
by her silence, an expression of the most intense agony suc¬ 
ceeded the previous calm, and sinking down before her, Ellen 
wildly implored — 

“ Oh, aunt Emmeline, in mercy spare him! do not, oh, do 
not throw such shame upon him, he who is so brave, admired, 
honored! do not, oh, if you have any pity left, do not make him 
hate me, loathe me too, my own only brother,! he must throw 
me off. How can he bear such shame upon his name ! Oh, 
do, with me more than you have said, any thing, every thing, 
but that. Spare him! ” 

“ Spare him yourself,” interposed Percy, sternly. — (He was 
standing, with his arms crossed, by a window; Herbert was 
leaning at the back of Mrs. Hamilton’s chair; Caroline and 
Miss Harcourt trying very steadily to work, and Emmeline 
bending over a drawing, which her tears were utterly spoiling.) 
— “ If the knowledge of your sin make him miserable, as it 
must, be yourself the one to save him — you alone can. Speak ; 
break this determined and most guilty silence, and his influ¬ 
ence will not be needed, and my mother will be silent to him 
concerning what has passed, now and forever, as we will all. 
If you so love him, spare him the shame you have brought on 
all of us ; if not, it is mere words, as must be the love you have 
professed all these years for my mother.” 

Ellen turned her face toward him for a single minute, with 
such an expression of unutterable misery, that he turned hastily 
away, even his anger in part subdued, arid Mrs. Hamilton could 
scarcely reply. 


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283 


41 1 cannot grant your request, Ellen, for to refuse it, appears 
io.me the only means of softening you. It may be a full fort¬ 
night before I can write to Edward, for we must receive letters 
first. If during that interval you choose to give me the only 
proof of repentance that can satisfy me, or bring the least 
hope of returning happiness to yourself, I shall now know how 
to act. I would indeed spare your brother this bitter shame, 
but if you continue thus obdurate, no entreaties will move me. 
Iiise, and go with Ellis. Punishment and misery, repentance 
and pardon, are all before you ; you alone can choose. I shall 
interfere no more, till your uncle’s sentence comes.” And long¬ 
ing to end this painful scene, for her mistress’s sake, Ellis led 
Ellen from the room, and conducted her to the apartments as¬ 
signed her. She felt much too angry and annoyed at the pain 
and trouble Ellen was giving her mistress, to evince any thing 
like kindness toward her at first, but she had not been under 
her care above a week before her feelings underwent a com¬ 
plete change. 

Suffering as she was enduring, more especially from the con¬ 
viction, that to every one of those she loved (for affection for 
each one of the family had now returned with almost passionate 
violence) she must be an object of hate and loathing, yet that 
her sin was known, was a relief so inexpressibly blessed, she 
felt strengthened to endure every thing else. She knew, and 
her God knew, the agonized temptation to the momentary act, 
and the cause of her determined silence. She felt there was 
strange comfort in that; though she knew no punishment could 
be too severe for the sin itself, and she prayed constantly to be 
enabled to bear it, and still not to betray her brother ; and the 
consequence of these petitions was a calm, gentle, deeply sub¬ 
missive demeanor. Not a murmur ever passed her lips, and 
Ellis scarcely ever saw the signs of tears, which she longed for; 
for the quiet, but fearfully intense suffering, Ellen’s very evi¬ 
dent daily portion, alarmed her for its effect upon her always 
delicate health. As yet, however, there was no outward ap¬ 
pearance of its failing, it rather bore up, from the cessation of 
the nervous dread and constant terror, which she had endured 
before; and before Mr. Hamilton’s letter arrived, a month after 
the fatal discovery, Ellis had drawn her own conclusions, and 
her manner, instead of being distant and cold, had become so 
excessively kind and feeling, that the poor girl felt some heavy 
change must be impending, she dared not look to the continu¬ 
ance of such comfort. 

But Mrs. Hamilton never saw her niece, save when no words 


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could pass between them; and she could not judge as Ellis did. 
She could only feel, as each day passed, without bringing the 
desired proof of sorrow and amendment, more and more bewil¬ 
dered, and very wretched. Though, for her children’s sake, 
she so conquered the feeling as, after the first week, to restore 
cheerfulness, and promote the various amusements they had 
all so enjoyed. Ellen’s disappearance had of course to be ac¬ 
counted for, to the intimate friends with whom they so con¬ 
stantly were; but her acknowledgment that she had been dis¬ 
appointed in her, and that her conduct would not allow her 
any social or domestic indulgence, at least for a time, satisfied 
the elder members. Annie, for the first time, discovered that 
Caroline was her match in cleverness, merely from her exces¬ 
sive truth and simplicity, and that, manoeuvre as she might, she 
could not discover the smallest clew to this sudden mystery. 
And Mary, for the first time, and on this one subject alone, 
found Herbert and Emmeline impenetrably reserved. 

As soon as Mrs. Langford had been informed by her son, at 
his mistress’s desire, of the unanswerable proof of his innocence, 
she hastened to the Hall, and requesting a private interview 
with Mrs. Hamilton, placed at once in her hands all the trinkets 
and watch, with which she had been at different times intrusted; 
related all that had passed between her and Miss Fortescue,* 
the excessive misery she seemed to be enduring; and confessed 
that the few pounds she had given her, as the sums obtained 
by the sale of the trinkets, she had advanced herself, having 
resolved that nothing should induce her to dispose of them; 
and that of course it was the difficulty she had in advancing 
their right value, which had occasioned the length of time that 
had elapsed since Ellen had first sought her. 

“ Would it not go far to prove she really did wish to return 
the money ? ” Mrs. Hamilton thought, long after the widow had 
left her, and the sums she had advanced returned with interest. 
“ Was it to return the fatally appropriated sum, or because she 
needed more ? Ellen had so positively, and with such agony 
asserted the first, that it was scarcely possible to disbelieve 
her; but what was this fearful difficulty, this pressing demand 
by one so young for so much money ? Why, if it were com¬ 
paratively innocent, would she not speak?” The more she 
thought, the more perplexed and anxious she seemed to become. 
The act itself of endeavoring to dispose of the trinkets, espe¬ 
cially those that had been given and received, as doubly valua¬ 
ble because they had been worn by her mother, would have 
been sufficiently faulty to have occasioned natural displeasure, 


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but compared with other known and unknown faults, it sunk 
into almost nothing. Mrs. Hamilton collected them all together, 
those Mrs. Langford had returned, and the few remaining in 
her niece’s drawer, and carefully put them away, till circum¬ 
stances might authorize her returning them to Ellen, and de¬ 
termined on saying nothing more on the subject either to Ellen 
or her own family. 

One thing Ellis reported to her regarding Ellen, which cer¬ 
tainly seemed like a consciousness of the wrong she had done 
Robert, and a wish to atone for it. She begged Ellis so earn¬ 
estly that she might see him, if it were only for five minutes, 
that she could not resist her ; and when he came, she implored 
him so touchingly, so pleadingly to forgive her long silence 
himself, and entreat his mother to do so too — assuring him, that 
it was the hope of being able to restore the notes to him, with¬ 
out revealing her identity, which had caused the silence — that it 
was scarcely possible to listen to her unmoved. It was no 
false humility, but the deepest, most unfeigned contrition for 
having been the cause of injury. 

Ten days after Ellen’s imprisonment, the letter arrived from 
Sir Edward Manly, which Mrs. Hamilton had alluded to as 
necessary to be received, before she could write to her nephew, 
and the news it brought, though somewhat alloyed, would at 
another time have been received with the greatest delight. Ed¬ 
ward was returning. In three weeks, or a month at the utmost, 
after the receipt of his commander’s letter, he might be with 
them all; invalided home for a three or four months’ leave. 
There had been another, and rather severe engagement, in 
which young Fortescue had still more distinguished himself; 
but from his headlong courage had been severely, but not at all 
seriously hurt. Sir Edward intended sending the pirate frigate 
which they had taken to England, as she was a tight-built, well 
looking craft enough, he wrote, if manned with honorable men 
instead of desperate villains ; and had nominated Harding and 
Fortescue to accompany the second lieutenant, as her officers. 

The name of Harding produced no disagreeable reminiscences 
in Mrs. Hamilton’s mind. It had been so very long since Ed¬ 
ward had even mentioned him, that she had almost forgotten 
his early fancy for him. Her only thought now was thankful¬ 
ness that her gallant nephew had been preserved, and that he 
was coming home. It could scarcely be pleasure she felt, 
though all the young party did, for there was such an excite¬ 
ment in Edward’s courage, and in his having been in two des¬ 
perate engagements, and seen so much, that, with the buoyancy 


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happily natural to well-disposed youth, they could only think 
and talk of his return, forgetting the alloy that must cloud it. 
Percy and Herbert hoped he would arrive within the three 
weeks, as then they should be with him at least a week or ten 
days. If delayed, he would very provokingly just arrive as they 
would be returning to college. 

After much painful deliberation, Mrs. Hamilton determined 
on making Herbert her messenger with these unexpected tid¬ 
ings to Ellen ; hoping more than she expressed that his gentle 
eloquence in bringing before her the misery to which she must 
condemn her brother if she would persist in this silence, and so 
compel an appeal to him, would have some effect; especially 
as she charged him to impress upon her that even now confes¬ 
sion should bring pardon, and concealment of all from Edward. 
Herbert,gladly undertook the mission, and so feelingly, so earn¬ 
estly discharged it, that poor Ellen felt more heart-broken than 
she had done yet, and almost incapable of retaining her firm¬ 
ness. But she did; for danger to Edward seemed more immi¬ 
nent now that he was coming home, to the very vicinity of his 
dreaded uncle, than when he was at a distance. She could 
only feel thankful — if concealment were indeed so absolutely 
necessary as he had declared it to be — that Mr. Hamilton was 
still from home, and might continue to be so during Edward’s 
visit. It was difficult to repress the sickening shudder, when 
Herbert chanced to mention that Harding was her brother’s 
companion in his voyage home, and difficult, not to express 
more disappointment than the occasion warranted, that Edward 
had not answered her last letter. He must have received it, 
Herbert said, for Sir Edward acknowledged his father’s in 
which hers to Edward had been inclosed. He Heft her, after a 
very long interview, deeply grieved at the failure of all his per¬ 
suasions, all his remonstrances, but compelled, he could not sa¬ 
tisfactorily explain why, either to himself or to his family, to 
pity far more than blame. Percy declared, as did Caroline and 
Miss Harcourt, that it must be only his own too kind and gentle 
disposition, which never could blame anybody or any thing. 
Mrs. Hamilton was bitterly disappointed; Mr. Howard insisted 
that such obduracy demanded nothing but the sternest treat¬ 
ment, and he only wished Mr. Hamilton’s letter could arrive at 
once. He saw Ellen again himself twice in the five weeks, 
which elapsed between the discovery of her sin and the arrival 
of Mr. Hamilton’s answer; but if kindness had so failed, it was 
comparatively easy to resist his well-intentioned, but in this case 
utterly mistaken sternness. He was in general so kind even in 


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his judgments, that Mrs. Hamilton thought he must have some 
reason to believe Ellen so thoroughly hardened, and from his 
report of her was enabled to impart her husband’s sentence with 
more firmness, than had she listened to her own kind, still lov¬ 
ing heart. 

It was as she and Mr. Howard had both expected. Ellen 
was no longer to remain at Oakwood, but to be placed under 
the care of a maiden lady, living in Yorkshire, a relation of 
Mr. Hamilton, and one who had occasionally visited Oakwood, 
and was, therefore, well known to Mrs. Hamilton, and to Ellis 
too, and regarded with such dislike by the latter, as to make 
her actually venture to entreat her mistress not to send Miss 
Ellen to her; she was sure it would break her heart. Now 
Miss Seldon was one of the worthiest women that ever breath¬ 
ed — honest, straightforward, truth-speaking literally to a fault, 
but as hard as she was true. Whether she ever had any feel¬ 
ings or not, Mrs. Hamilton, with all her penetration, never 
could discover; but the good she did was immense in practical 
benevolence, though the quick sympathy, the kindly word, the 
indulgent thought, seemed utterly unknown. She had no pity 
for faults or failings, always declaring forbearance and love 
were all folly; “ if a branch were in the slightest degree de¬ 
cayed, cut it off; if the blight extend to the root, destroy it,” 
she was fond of saying. As for youthful follies or errors, she 
had no patience with them, for never having been, or rather 
felt young herself, she could not understand the age in others. 
Ellis had not discrimination enough to discern the good which 
lay under this very disagreeable exterior; Mrs. Hamilton had; 
and suffering as she knew a residence with her must be to 
Ellen, if indeed she were really the character she had seemed 
in childhood — though the last few months had so contradicted 
it — she felt her husband had decided wisely, spite of the misery 
which still even the very thought of sending her orphan niece 
so completely from her, was to herself. Mr. Hamilton’s letter 
read harshly, but his wife knew his high, almost stern princi¬ 
ples ; he had not seen Ellen’s evident anguish; he could only 
judge from the relation which had been sent him, and all which 
that told was indeed against her. Of course he said, if she had 
confessed, and her confession in any degree pleaded for her, 
his wife would use her own judgment as to the period of her 
banishment; but he could not imagine any cause for her con¬ 
duct sufficiently excusing, as to demand the avoidance of his 
sentence altogether. 

Miss Seldo'n’s last visit to Oakwood was sufficiently well 


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remembered by the young Hamiltons (though it was before 
their cousins had arrived from India) for them all— even Percy 
and Caroline, the most indignant against Ellen — to think of 
their father’s sentence with the deepest regret, and with almost 
dread for its effect on Ellen. 

“ If she did but know her, she must speak,” was Emmeline’s 
exclamation. “ I did not feel quite sure that I was my own 
happy self, all the time she was with us.” 

“The atmosphere was frozen twenty degrees below zero in 
all the rooms she frequented, though it was otherwise a hot 
summer,” rejoined Percy; “and in Yorkshire — ” 

“ Pray do not joke, dear Percy; I cannot bear to think of 
Ellen going away from us at all, much less to such a guardian, 
though I know she is very good,” answered Herbert. 

“Now, my good fellow, do not attempt to say a word for 
Nancy Seldon; she was the only person in the world I ever 
heard you acknowledge you disliked; so what must she be ? 
Worthy! no doubt, or my father would not have trusted Ellen 
to her, but for any thing else — ” 

“ Poor Ellen! she little knows to what her obstinacy is con¬ 
demning her,” rejoined Caroline; I wish she did, and then she 
might spare herself and mamma, top; though I fear even con¬ 
fession would not help her much now.” 

Mrs. Hamilton might and did think with them all, but she 
could not swerve from her duty. She wrote at once to Miss 
Seldon, not entering into particulars, but merely asking if she 
would consent to take charge of a relative, whose conduct de¬ 
manded more rigid watchfulness and care, and an entire cessa¬ 
tion of indulgence, than could be the case in the family circle at 
Oakwood. She and her husband had such perfect confidence 
in her, she said, that if she could oblige them by undertaking 
the duty, they knew, without any assurance on her part, that 
she would discharge it faithfully. The yearly sum they offered 
was large, because they wished their young relative to have 
all the comforts and appurtenances of a gentlewoman, and the 
advantages of the best education, the city near which she re¬ 
sided, could afford. Mrs. Hamilton had no doubt of the affirm¬ 
ative nature of the reply, for Miss Seldon owed the recovery 
of her fortune and position entirely to the exertions of Mr. 
Hamilton; and she had told him, once for all, that if she could 
but serve or oblige him in any way, great or small, it would 
make her far happier than she had ever been, or was likely to 
be in her solitary life. The letter written and despatched, 
Mrs. Hamilton summoned Ellen once more to her presence. 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


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The scene was again the library, where she had been writ¬ 
ing, and the time nearing the short twilight of October. It 
was three weeks, rather more, since Sir Edward Manly’s letter 
had been received, and Edward was, therefore, almost daily 
expected. The feelings with which his unhappy sister looked 
to his return it would be a vain attempt to define. At times 
the intense longing to see him again caused a wild, almost sick 
feeling of pleasure, that she might, perhaps, so soon do so; 
then came all that had passed, and she pictured his anger, his 
loathing — true it had been for him, but he had not thought of 
such a deed. He would, he must hate and spurn her, too; and 
the idea of meeting him became absolute agouy. Then — and 
she shuddered in dread — would he think that he must acknow¬ 
ledge it was for him she had thus acted ? and, it' so, had she not 
betrayed instead of saving him ? Incident after incident in 
their childhood rose before her, to give her hope that he would 
be silent noAV as then, and not betray himself; but these con¬ 
tending terrors, united with the constant though silent suffering 
of her banishment from all she loved, the utter hopelessness as 
to the end of this trial, had not been without effect on the out¬ 
ward frame. Ellis did not see it, from so constantly watching 
her, and from Ellen never refusing to take the exercise she 
desired her, and not making a single complaint as to the pain 
it was sometimes to walk, and always to swallow her meals; 
but as she stood opposite to her aunt, in the full light of the 
oriel'window — her approach had been so noiseless, Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton, who was bending over some papers, did not see her till 
she chanced to look up — the attenuation of form and feature 
was so < very visible, that her aunt could not prevent herself 
from starting painfully, and the words with which she had in¬ 
tended to address her froze on her lips. It was with the utmost 
difficulty she refrained from folding her to her heart, and try¬ 
ing, by every means affection could devise, to soothe or remove 
that anguish, whatever its nature, far too deep and constant 
for one so very young; but how dared she do this, when, by 
this determined silence, Ellen so defied her authority, and 
seemed so resolved that neither severity nor kindness, nor her 
own sufferings should humble her spirit, though they had even 
affected her frame ? 

Conquering with a powerful effort the pleadings of affection, 
Mrs. Hamilton calmly entered on the subject for which she 
had summoned her, reading to her a greater part of her uncle’s 
letter, hoping that its severity would spare her the pain of any 
additional remarks. Every word seemed to burn itself on 
25 


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Ellen’s brain. What she had hoped she knew not, for she 
thought she had never hoped at all; but the words, “No cause 
can be excusing enough to justify the entire setting aside this 
sentence,” seemed by its agony to tell her that the thought had 
entered her mind, if the real cause were by any chance dis¬ 
covered would she be forgiven, and in time restored to con¬ 
fidence and love? And now it was over, even that hope was 
gone. 

Mrs. Hamilton paused for a reply or an observation, but none 
came,and she continued impressively — “I can scarcely hope, 
Ellen, that as even the idea of sparing your only brother shame 
and misery, on his return home, expecting nothing but joy, 
after nearly three years’ separation and exposure to danger, 
has had no effect in softening you, that your uncle’s sentence 
will. Once I should have believed that only the thought of 
leaving me, and going to the care of a stranger, would have 
urged you to speak directly. I can believe this no longer; but 
as I wish you to be with Edward, at least part of his stay with 
us, I shall postpone your leaving us, one month from to-day. 
If, indeed, Edward’s influence be such that, for his sake, you 
will make me a full confession and answer clearly and distinctly 
every question I put to you, your residence with Mrs. Seldon 
shall be limited to three, six, ten, or tw r elve months, according 
to the nature of the motive of this incomprehensible and, ap¬ 
parently most sinful conduct. If you leave us still obdurate, 
years will, in all probability, pass before we can feel sufficiently 
confident in the restored integrity and openness of your cha¬ 
racter to permit your return to us. The pain you are inflicting 
upon me it is useless to dwell upon. As the child of my only 
and most dearly loved sister, I have loved you, hoped for you, 
with little less intensity of affection than that I have borne 
toward my own; for I felt that, with the sole exception of your 
brother, I was the only being you had on earth united to you 
by ties of blood. How this conduct repays my love and care 
you must answer to yourself; I can only be sensible of bitter 
disappointment. 

Again she stopped, evidently expecting a reply, but Ellen 
still remained silent. The short twilight of autumn had set in 
so suddenly, that Mrs. Hamilton was not aware her niece’s 
cheek had become still paler, and that her white lips quivered 
repeatedly, as if she several times tried to speak, but could not. 
After a silence of some minutes, she said — 

“ If you are determined not to speak, Ellen, you may retire; 
I have told you all I wished to say, except that till you leave 


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us, though you will still occupy your present rooms, and be still 
under Ellis’s care, you are at liberty to employ yourself, and go 
about the house and grounds as usual.” 

Ellen turned to go, still in that unbroken silence; she had 
reached the low step dividing the upper part from the lower 
part of the room, and whether she did not see it, or from some 
other cause, the room suddenly reeled before her, and she fell 
heavily forward. To spring toward her, raise her tenderly, 
bear her to the nearest couch, though she so trembled herself 
at finding Ellen quite insensible, as to render the task unusually 
difficult, and to ring hastily for Ellis, was the work of a minute, 
but it was many minutes before their united efforts could bring 
back consciousness. 

“ I knew it would break her heart, poor lamb! ” was Ellis’s 
exclamation, in a tone of most unusual excitement; “thank 
God, thank God! Master Edward’s coming home, and that she 
is not. to go till he does.” 

“ Have you so much confidence in his influence ? ” asked her 
mistress, as, unable to resist the impulse, she bent down and 
repeatedly kissed the cold brow and cheek, to which she was so 
earnestly striving to restore warmth, “ God in mercy grant you 
may be right! ” 

“ Right ? Dear my lady ! ” (whenever Ellis was strongly 
moved, she always so addressed her mistress,) “I would stake 
your confidence in me, which is all my life’s worth, if Master 
Edward is not at the bottom of it all, and that this poor child 
is sacrificing herself for some fancied danger to him! I saw 
enough of that work when they were young children, and I have 
noticed enough since she has been under my care.” 

“ Edward! ” repeated Mrs. Hamilton, so bewildered, as to 
stop for the moment chafing Ellen’s cold hand ; “ Edward! 
bearing the high character he does; what can he have to do 
with it ? ” 

“I don’t know, my lady, but I am sure he has. Young 
men, ay, some of the finest and bravest among us, get into diffi¬ 
culties sometimes, and it don’t touch their characters as their 
officers see them, and Master Edward was always so terrified 
at the mere thought of my master knowing any of his faults; 
but — hush! we must not let her know we suspect any thing, 
poor lamb; it will make her still more miserable. You are 
better now, dear Miss Ellen, are you not ? ” she added, sooth¬ 
ingly, as Ellen feebly raised her hand to her forehead, and then 
slowly unclosed her eyes, and beheld her aunt leaning over 
her, with that same expression of anxious affection, which her 


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illness had so often caused in her childhood. Sense, or rather 
memory, had not quite returned, and her first words were with 
a faint but happy smile — 

“ I am better, dear aunt, much better; I dare say I shall 
soon be well.” But it was only a momentary forgetfulness ; 
swift as thought came the whole of what had so lately passed 
— her uncle’s letter, her aunt’s words, and murmuring, in a 
tone how painfully changed! “ I forgot — forgive me,” she 
buried her face in the pillow. 

“ Ellen, my dear Ellen ! why will you persist in making 
yourself and me so miserable, when a few words would make 
us happier ? ” exclaimed Mrs. Hamilton, almost imploringly, as 
she bent over her. 

“ Do not urge her now, dear my lady, she is not well enough ; 
give her till Master Edward comes; I am sure she will not 
resist him,” answ'ered Ellis, very respectfully, though mean¬ 
ingly, as her look drew her mistress’s attention to the shudder 
which convulsed Ellen’s slight frame, at the mention of her 
brother. 

Pained and bewildered more than ever, Mrs. Hamilton, after 
waiting till the faintness seemed quite gone, and thinking that 
if the restraint of her presence were removed, Ellen might be 
relieved by tears, left her, desiring Ellis to let her know in a 
short time how she was. The moment the door closed, Ellen 
threw her arms round Ellis’s neck, exclaiming passionately — 

“ Take me away — take me away, dear Ellis ; I cannot bear 
this room — it seems all full of misery! and I loved it so once, 
and I shall love it again, when I am miles and miles away, and 
cannot see it — nor any one belonging to it. Oh, Ellis, Ellis ! 
I knew you were too kind. I was too glad and contented to be 
with you; it was not punishment enough for my sin — and I 
must go away — and I shall never, never see my aunt again — 
I know I shall not. Oh ! if I might but die first! but I am too 
wicked for that; it is only the good that die.” 

And almost for the first time since her sin had been discover¬ 
ed, she gave way to a long and violent fit of weeping, which, 
though terrible while it lasted, as the anguish of the young 
always is, greatly relieved her, and enabled her after that day 
not. to revert in words (the thought never left her till a still 
more fearful anxiety deadened it) to her uncle’s sentence again. 

Mrs. Hamilton sat for a very long time alone after she had 
left Ellen. Ellis’s words returned to her again and again so 
pertinaciously, that she could not break from them. - Edward ! 
the cause of it all — could it be possible ? — could it be, that 


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lie had plunged himself into difficulties, and afraid to appeal to 
his uncle or her, had so worked on Ellen as not only to make 
her send relief, but actually so to keep his secret, as to endure 
every thing rather than betray it ? Circumstance after circum¬ 
stance, thought after thought, so congregated upon her, so 
seemed to burst into being, and flash light one from the other, 
that her mind ached beneath their pressure. Ellen’s unhappi¬ 
ness the day his last letter had been received, her sudden ill¬ 
ness — had it taken place before or after Robert had lost the 
money ? She could not satisfy herself, for her husband’s sud¬ 
den summons to Feroe, hasty preparations, and departure, had 
rendered all the month confused and unsatisfactory in its recol¬ 
lections. So intense was the relief of the idea, that Mrs. Ha¬ 
milton feared to encourage it, lest it should prove a mere fancy, 
and urge softer feelings toward her niece than ought to be. 
Even the supposition made her heart yearn toward her with 
such a feeling of love, almost of veneration, for the determined 
self-devotion, so essentially woman’s characteristic, that she 
resolutely checked its ascendency. All her previous fancies 
that Ellen was no ordinary child, that early suffering and neg¬ 
lect had, while they produced some childish faults, matured and 
deepened the capabilities of endurance and control, from the 
consciousness (or rather existence, for it was not the conscious¬ 
ness to the child herself) of strong feeling, returned to her, as 
if determined to confirm Ellis’s supposition. The disappear¬ 
ance of her allowance; her assertion, that she was seeking 
Mrs. Langford’s cottage, by that shorter but forbidden path, to 
try and get her to dispose of her trinkets, when the wind blew 
the notes to her hand — all now seemed connected one with 
the other, and confirmed. She could well understand, how in 
a moment of almost madness they might have been used with¬ 
out thought, and the after-effect upon so delicate a mind and 
conscience. Then, in contradiction to all this (a mere hypo¬ 
thesis raised on nothing firmer than Ellis’s supposition) came 
the constantly favorable accounts of Edward; his captain’s 
pride and confidence in him ; the seeming impossibility that he 
could get into such difficulties, and what were they ? The 
name of Harding rushed on her mind, she knew not why or 
how — but it made her tremble, by its probable explanation of 
the whole. A coarse or even less refined mind, would have 
either appealed at once to Ellen, as to the truth of this suspi¬ 
cion, or thought herself justified in looking over all Edward’s 
letters to his sister, as thus to discover the truth; but in Mrs. 
Hamilton’s pure mind the idea never even entered, though all 

25 * 


294 


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her niece’s papers and letters were in her actual possession. 
She could only feel to her heart’s core with Ellis, “ Thank 
God, Master Edward’s coming home ! ” and pray earnestly that 
he might be with them, as they hoped and anticipated, in a 
few, a very few days. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE LIGHT GLIMMERS. 

The earnest wishes and prayers of Mrs. Hamilton and her 
faithful Ellis were disappointed. The latter part of the month 
of September had been exceedingly stormy, and though there 
was a lull from about the 3d to the 9th of October, the equi¬ 
noctial gales then set in with the utmost fury ; continuing day 
after day, night after night, till the ear seemed almost to tire 
of the sound, and the mind, anxious for friends at sea, despair 
of their cessation. During the few calm days, the young party 
at Oakwood had scarcely been absent from the windows, or 
from that part of the park leading to the Plymouth road, above 
an hour at a time. Percy and Herbert rode over to Plymouth, 
but were told the frigate could not be in for a full week. The 
late storms must have detained her, though she was a fast-sail¬ 
ing craft. It was a great disappointment to them, for on the 
10th of October college term began, and they were compelled 
to return to Oxford. The cause of their mother’s intense desire 
for Edward’s return, indeed, they did not know; but they were 
most impatient to see him, and they hoped, they did not exactly 
know what, with regard to his influence with Ellen. However, 
the day of their departure came, and still he had not arrived, 
and the storms had recommenced. Percy had gone to say 
good-by to Ellis, with whom Ellen chanced at that moment to 
be. Full of spirits and jokes, he determinately looked away 
from his cousin, took both Ellis’s hands, and shook them with 
his usual heartiness. 

“ Good-by, dear Ellis. I wonder if I shall ever feel myself 
a man when talking to you. How many tricks I have played 
you in this room, and you were always so good-natured, even 
when one of my seat-crackers set your best gown on fire, and 
quite spoiled it; do you remember it ? I do think you were 
nearly angry then, and quite enough to make you; and papa 



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made me save up my money to buy you a new dress. I did 
not play such a practical joke in a hurry again.” 

Ellis laughed, and perfectly remembered it, and with another 
hearty good-by he turned away. 

“ You have forgotten your cousin, Mr. Percy,” she said, dis¬ 
regarding Ellen’s imploring look. 

“ When she remembers her duty to my mother, I will re¬ 
member that she is my cousin,” was his hasty answer, and he 
hurried from the room as Herbert entered. His good-by to 
Ellis was quite as warm as Percy’s, and then turning to Ellen, 
he put his arm round her, kissed her cheek, and said, with im¬ 
pressive earnestness — 

u God bless you, dear Ellen! I hope you will be happier 
when we meet again, and that it will not be so long before we 
do, as we fancy now; ” and, affected almost to tears at the 
grateful, humble look she raised to his, he left her. 

Overcome as much by the harshness of the generous, warm¬ 
hearted Percy, whom she so dearly loved, as by the gentle 
kindness of Herbert, Ellen remained for several minutes with 
her arms on the table, her face hid upon them. She thought 
she was quite alone, for Ellis had gone about some of her busi¬ 
ness, when she was startled by Percy’s voice. 

u I am a brute, Ellen, nothing less; forgive me, and say 
good-by. I can’t understand it at all, but angry as I am with 
you, your pale face haunts me like a spectre, so we must part 
friends ; ” and as she looked hastily up, he kissed her warmly 
twice, and ran away without another word. 

Days passed heavily, the gales seeming to increase in vio¬ 
lence, and causing Mrs. Hamilton more terrible anxiety and 
vague dread than she allowed to be visible. The damage among 
the shipping was fearful, and the very supposed vicinity of the 
frigate to the Channel increased the danger. The papers every 
morning presented long lists of ships wrecked, or fatally dis¬ 
mantled, loss of crews or part of them, mails and cargoes due 
but missing; and the vivid recollection of the supposed fate of 
her own brother, the wretchedness of the suspense before the 
fate of his vessel was ascertained, returned to heighten the 
fears that would gain ascendency for her nephew, and for the 
effect of this terrible suspense on Ellen, more especially — if 
indeed she had endured all these weeks, nay, months, of misery 
for him. 

At first Ellen seemed unconscious that there was any thing 
remarkable in the delay, the thought of her own departure 
being uppermost; but when the thought did press upon her, 


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how it came she knew not — that of the given month the weeks 
were passing, and Edward had not arrived, and that there 
must be some reason for the long delay — storm, shipwreck, 
death, all flashed upon her at once, and almost maddened her. 
The quiet calm of endurance gave way. She could not sleep 
at night from the tremendous winds; not even when Ellis had 
a bed put up in her room, and remained with her all night her¬ 
self; she never complained indeed, but hour after hour she 
would pace her room and the passage leading to Ellis’s, till 
compelled to cease from exhaustion ; she would try steadily to 
employ herself with some difficult study, and succeed, perhaps, 
for half an hour, but then remain powerless, or recommence 
her restless walk. Mrs. Hamilton made several attempts with¬ 
out any apparent interference on her part, to get her to sit 
occasionally with her and Miss Harcourt, and her cousins, but 
she seemed to shrink from them all. Emmeline, indeed, when 
once aware of the terrible trial she was enduring, would sit 
with her, drawing or working as if nothing had occurred to 
estrange them, and try to cheer her by talking on many topics 
of interest. Caroline \\ould speak to her kindly whenever she 
saw her. Miss Harcourt alone retained her indignation, for 
no suspicion of the real cause of her silence ever entered her 
mind. 

Poor Ellen felt that she dared not indulge in the comfort this 
change in her aunt’s and cousins’ manner produced. She wanted 
to wean herself quite from them, that the pang of separation 
might be less severe, but she only seemed to succeed in loving 
them more. One thought, indeed, at length took such entire 
possession of her mind, as to deaden every other: — it was the 
horrible idea that, as she had sinned to save Edward, perhaps, 
from merited disgrace, he would be taken from her; she never 
breathed it, but it haunted her night and day. Mr. Maitland 
saw her continually, but he plainly told Mrs. Hamilton while 
the cause of anxiety and mental suffering lasted he could do 
her no good. It was a constant alternation of fearful excitement 
and complete depression, exhausting the whole system. Repose 
and kindness — alas ! the latter might be given, but the former, 
in the present position of affairs, how could it be insured? 

The month of grace was waning; only two days remained, 
and Edward had not arrived, and how could Mrs. Hamilton 
obey her husband — whose every letter reiterated his hope that 
she had not been prevailed on to alter his sentence, if Ellen 
still remained silent — and send her niece from her? She came 
at length to the determination, that if another week passed and 


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297 


still there were no tidings, not to let this fearful self-sacrifice, 
if it really were such, last any longer, but gently, cautiously, 
tenderly as she could, prevail on Ellen to confide all to her, 
and promise, if Edward really had been erring and in difficulties, 
all should be forgiven for her sake, and even his uncle’s anger 
averted. Once her determination taken, she felt better enabled 
to endure an anxiety which was injuring her almost as much as 
Ellen; and she turned to Ellis’s room, which she had lately 
very often frequented, for she scarcely felt comfortable when 
Ellen was out of her sight, though she had full confidence in 
Ellis’s care. 

Ellen was asleep on a sofa, looking so wan, so haggard — so 
altered from the Ellen of five short months back, that Mrs. 
Hamilton sat down by her side, pondering whether she was 
doing right to wait even another week, before she should try 
to bring relief by avowing her suspicions — but would it bring 
relief? and, after all, was it for Edward? or, had she been 
allowing affection and imagination to mislead and soften, when 
sternness might still be needed ? 

Ellen woke with a start as from some fearful dream, and 
gazed at Mrs. Hamilton for a full minute, as if she did not 
know her. 

“ My dear Ellen, what is it ? You have been sleeping un¬ 
comfortably — surely you know me ? ” 

“I thought I was at — at — Seldon Grange — are you sure I 
am not? Dear aunt Emmeline, do tell me I am at Oakwood, 
I know I am to go, and very soon; but I am not there now, 
am I ? ” and she put one hand to her forehead, and gazed hur¬ 
riedly and fearfully round her, while, with the other, she held 
tightly Mrs. Hamilton’s dress. There was something alarming 
both in her look and tone. 

“ ]STo, love, you are with me still at Oakwood, and you will 
not go from me till you have been with Edward some little 
time. You cannot think I would send you away now, Ellen ? ” 

The soothing tone, her brother’s name, seemed to disperse 
the cloud, and bursting into tears, she exclaimed — 

“He will never come — I know he will never come — my 
sin has killed him?” 

“Your sin, Ellen, what can that have to do with Edward?” 

“Because,” the words “it was for him” were actually on her 
lips; but they were checked, and, in increasing excitement, she 
continued — “Nothing, nothing, indeed, with him—what could 
it have ? But if he knows it — oh, it will so grieve him; per¬ 
haps it would be better I should go before he comes — and 
then, then, he need not know it; if, indeed, he ever comes.” 


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“I do not think you quite know what you are saying, my 
dear Ellen; your uncomfortable dream has unsettled you. Try 
and keep quiet for an hour, and you will be better. Remember, 
suffering as this dreadful suspense is, your brother is still in a 
Father’s gracious keeping; and that He will listen to your 
prayers for his safety, and if it be His good pleasure, still 
restore him to you.” 

“My prayers,” answered Ellen, fearfully. “Mr. Howard 
said, there was a barrier between Him and me, while I would 
not confess; I had refused His mercy.” 

“Can you confess before God, Ellen? Can you lay your 
whole heart open before Him, and ask Him in his infinite 
mercy, and for your Saviour’s sake, to forgive you ? ” 

“I could, and did do so, answered Ellen, returning Mrs. 
Hamilton’s earnestly inquiring look, by raising her large, ex¬ 
pressive eyes, steadily and fearlessly, to her face; “but Mr. 
Howard told me it was a mockery and sin to suppose God 
would hear me or forgive me while I refused to obey Him, by 
being silent and obdurate to you. That if I wished His for¬ 
giveness, I must prove it by telling the whole to you, whom 
His commandments desired me to obey, and — and — as I dared 
not do that, I have been afraid to pray.” And the shudder 
with which she laid her head again upon the pillow, betrayed 
the misery of the fear. 

“And is it impossible, quite impossible that you can confide 
the source of your grief and difficulty to me, Ellen ? Will you 
not do so, even if I promise forgiveness, not merely to you, but 
to all who may have erred ? Answer me, my sweet child; your 
silence is fearfully injuring your mind and body. Why do 
you fancy you dare not tell me ? ” 

“ Because, because I have promised! ” answered Ellen, in a 
fearful tone of returning excitement, and, sitting upright, she 
clasped her hands convulsively together, while her cheek burned 
with painful brilliancy. “Aunt Emmeline — oh, do not, pray 
do not speak to me in that kind tone! be harsh and cold again, 
I can bear it better. If you did but know how my heart and 
brain ache — how they long to tell you and so rest — but 1 can¬ 
not — I dare not — I have promised.” 

“And you may not tell me whom you have promised ? ” re¬ 
plied Mrs. Hamilton, every former thought rendered apparently 
null and vain by these words, and painfully disappointing her; 
but the answer terrified her. 

“ Mamma — I promised her, and she stands by me so pale, 
so grieved, whenever I think of telling you,” answered Ellen, 


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299 


clinging to Mrs. Hamilton, but looking with a strained gaze of 
terror on vacancy. “I thought I must have told you, when you 
said I was to go — to go to Seldon Grange — but she stood by 
me and laid her hand on my head, and it was so cold, so heavy, 
I don’t remember any thing more till I found you and Ellis 
leaning over me; but I ought not to tell you even this. I know 
I ought not — for look — look, aunt Emmeline! — don’t you 
see mamma — there — quite close to me; oh, tell her to forgive 
me — I will keep my promise,” and shuddering convulsively, 
she hid her face in her aunt’s dress. 

Mrs. Hamilton was dreadfully alarmed. Whatever the 
foundation, and she had no doubt that there was some, and that 
it really had to do with Edward and his poor mother’s mistaken 
partiality, Ellen’s imagination was evidently disordered. To 
attempt obtaining the truth, while she was in this fearful state 
of excitement, was as impossible as cruel, and she tried only to 
soothe her to composure; speaking of her mother as happy and 
in Heaven and that Ellen had thought of her so much, as was 
quite natural in her sorrow, that she fancied she saw her. 

“ It is not reality, love; if she could see and speak to you, I 
am sure it would be to tell you to confide all your sorrow to 
me, if it would make you happier.” 

“ Oh, no, no — I should be very wicked if it made me hap¬ 
pier ; I ought not even to wish to tell you. But Mr. Myrvin told 
me, even when mamma went to Heaven, she would still see me, 
and know if I kept my promise, and tried to win her love, by 
doing what I know she wished, even after she was dead; and it 
was almost a pleasure to do so till now, even if it gave me pain 
and made me unhappy; but now, now, aunt Emmeline, I know 
you must hate me; you never, never can love me again — and 
that — that is so hard to bear.” 

“ Have you forgotten, my dear Ellen, the blessed assurance, 
there is more joy in Heaven over one sinner that repenteth, 
than over ninety-and-nine who have not sinned? and if our 
Father in Heaven can so feel, so act, are His creatures to do 
less ? Do you think, because you have given me pain, and 
trouble and disappointment, and compelled me to use such ex¬ 
treme severity, and cause you so much suffering, that it will be 
quite impossible for me to love you again, if I see you do all 
you can to win back that love ? ” 

Ellen made no answer; but the alarming excitement had so 
far' subsided, as to raise the hope that quietness would subdue 
it altogether. Mrs. Hamilton remained with her till she seem¬ 
ed quite calm, and would not have left her then, but she had 


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HOME INFLUENCE. 


promised Caroline to drive with her into T— that afternoon, 
to make some purchases; Emmeline and Miss Iiarcourt were 
spending the day at Greville Manor, and her daughter depend¬ 
ing on her, she did not like to disappoint her. But the difficulty 
to think of other things, and cheerfully converse on compara¬ 
tively indifferent topics, was greater than she had ever found it. 
That Ellis’s surmise was correct, she had no longer the smallest 
doubt. Ellen was sacrificing herself, not merely for the love 
she bore her brother, but from some real or imaginary promise 
to her poor mother. What its exact nature was, she could not 
indeed satisfy herself, but that it had something to do with con¬ 
cealing Edward’s faults seemed to flash upon her, she hardly 
knew how r . Ellis’s words “ that she had seen enough of that 
work when they were children,” returned to her, and various 
incongruities in Ellen’s character and conduct which she had 
been unable to reconcile at the time, all seemed connected with 
it. But to arrive at the truth was much more difficult than 
ever; still, how could she send Ellen away ? and yet, if still 
silent,- would mere surmise satisfy her husband ? There was 
but one hope, one ray of light — Edward’s own honor, if indeed 
he were permitted to return; and even while driving and talk¬ 
ing with Caroline, her heart was one fervent prayer that this 
might be, and the fearful struggle of her devoted Ellen cease. 

Her aunt’s gentle and unexpected kindness had had such a 
beneficial effect on Ellen, that, after her early dinner, about 
three o’clock, she told Ellis she would go- in the school-room, 
and try and read there for an hour; she knew all the family 
were out, and therefore would be quite undisturbed. Ellis 
willingly acquiesced, rejoicing that she should seek any change 
herself, and advised her, as it was such a mild, soft afternoon, 
after the late storms, to take a turn on the terrace, on which a 
glass-door from the school-room opened ; it would do her good. 
Ellen meant to take her advice, but as she looked out from a 
window over a well-remembered landscape, so many painful 
thoughts and recollections crowded on her, that she lost all in¬ 
clination to move. She had not stood there for many weeks, 
and it seemed to her that the view had never looked sc very 
lovely. The trees all had the last glories of autumn — for it 
was early in November — the grass was of that beautiful 
humid emerald which always follows heavy rain, and though 
the summer-flowers had all gone, the sheltered beds of the 
garden, lying beneath the terrace, presented many very beauti¬ 
ful still. The end of the terrace, a flight of stone steps, over¬ 
looked the avenue, leading from the principal lodge to the main 


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301 


entrance, and where Ellen stood, she could distinguish a few 
yards of the path where it issued from some distant trees. She 
gazed at first, conscious only that she was banished from it all, 
and that, however long her departure might be deferred, she 
must go at last, for her uncle’s mandate could not be disobeyed ; 
but gradually her eye became fixed as in fascination. A single 
figure was emerging from the trees, and dressed in the uniform 
of a midshipman — she was sure it was ! but it was a figure so 
tall, so slim, his step so lingering, it could not be Edward, most 
likely some one of his messmates come to tell his fate. He was 
taller even than Percy, but so much slighter, so different to the 
boy from whom she had parted, that, though her heart bounded 
and sunk till faintness seemed to overpower her, she could not 
convince herself it was he. With an almost unconscious effort 
she ran out, through the glass-door to the steps of the terrace; 
she could now see him distinctly, but not his face, for his cap 
was low over his forehead; but as he approached, he paused, 
as if doubting whether to go up to the hall door, or the well- 
known terrace, by which he had always rushed into the school¬ 
room, on his daily return from Mr. Howard’s; and as he looked 
hastily up, his cap fell back, and his eyes met Ellen’s. A wild 
but checked scream broke from her lips, and all was an im¬ 
penetrable mist till she found herself in her brother’s arms, in 
the room she had quitted, his lips repeatedly pressing her cheek 
and forehead, and his voice, which sounded so strange — it did 
not seem like Edward’s, it was so much more deep and manly — 
entreating her to speak to him, and tell him why she looked so 
ill; but still her heart so throbbed she could not speak. She 
could only cling close to him and look intently in his face, which 
was so altered from the happy, laughing boy, that had he not 
been, from his extreme paleness and attenuation of feature, 
still more like their mother when she was ill, his sister would 
scarcely have known him. 

“ Dearest Ellen, do speak to me ; what has been the matter, 
that you look so pale and sad ? Are you not glad to see me ? ” 

“ Glad ! oh, Edward, you cannot know how glad ; I thought 
you would never, never come, the storms have been so terrible; 
I have been ill, and your sudden appearance startled me, for I 
had thought of such dreadful things, and that was the reason I 
could not speak at first; but I am sure you are as pale as I am, 
dear, dear Edward ; you have been wounded — have you not 
recovered them yet ? ” 

“ My wounds, Ellen ! oh, they were slight enough ; I wished 
and tried for them to be severer, to have done for me at once, 
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but they would not, they only bought me praise, praise which 
maddened me ! ” 

“ Sir Edward,” murmured Ellen, in a low, fearful voice, “ how 
did he part with you ? ” 

“ As he has always treated me, a kind, too kind father! oh, 
Ellen, Ellen, if he did but know the deceiving villain that I 
am ! ” 

“ Would he indeed not forgive, Edward, if he so loves you ? 
not if he knew all, the temptation, the — ” 

“ Temptation, Ellen! what excuse ought there to be in 
temptation ? Why was I such a fool, such a madman, to allow 
myself to be lured into error again and again by that villain, 
after I had discovered his double face, and I had been warned 
against him, too ? Why did I so madly disregard Mr. How¬ 
ard’s and my uncle’s warning letters, trusting my self-will and 
folly, instead of their experience ? Brave ! I am the veriest 
coward that ever trod the deck, because I could not bear a 
sneer! ” 

“ And he ? are you still within his power ? ” inquired Ellen, 
shrinking in terror from the expression of her brother’s face. 

“ No, Ellen, no ; God forgive me — I have tried not to re¬ 
joice ; the death was so terrible, so nearly my own, that I stood 
appalled, and, for the first time these two years, knelt down to 
my God for pardon, mercy to repent. The lightning struck him 
where he stood, struck him beside me, leaving the withering 
smile of derisive mockery, with which he had that moment been 
regarding me, still on his lips. Why, and where had he gone ? 
he, who denied God and his holy Word, turned the solemn 
service into mockery, and made me like himself — and why was 
I spared ? Oh, Ellen, I have no words to describe the sensation 
of that moment! ” lie stopped, and shuddered, then continued, 
hurriedly, “ Changed as I am in appearance, it is nothing to the 
change within. I did not know its extent till now that I am 
here again, and all my happy boyhood comes before me ; aunt 
Emmeline’s gentle lessons of piety and goodness — oh, Ellen, 
Ellen, what have been their fruits? For two years I have 
given myself up to passion, unrestrained by one word, one 
thought of prayer; I dared, sinful madman as I was, to make 
a compact with my own conscience, and vow, that if I received 
the relief I expected from you, and was free from Harding, I 
would reform, would pray for the strength to resist temptation, 
which I had not in myself; and when, when the man that was 
despatched by Sir Edward from the shore, with the letters for 
the crew, sunk beneath the waves, bearing every despatch along 


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with him, I cursed him, and the Fate, which had ordained his 
death. Ellen, Ellen ! why was I saved, and Harding killed ? ” 

“And you never received my letter, Edward ? Never knew 
if I had tried to relieve you from Harding’s power ? ” answered 
Ellen, becoming so deadly pale, that Edward forced himself to 
regain composure ; the nature of his information causing such 
a revulsion of feeling in his sister as to deaden her to the horror 
of his words. For what had all this suffering been ? 

“ I was sure you had, Ellen, for you always did, and I could 
trust you as I could myself. A sudden squall had upset the 
boat, and the man was so encumbered by a large great-coat, 
every pocket filled with letters and papers, that he sunk at once 
though every help was offered. I threw myself into the sea to 
save him, and Lieutenant Morley praised my courage and bene¬ 
volence — little did he know my motive ! Besides, Sir Edward 
told me there was an inclosure for me in my uncle’s to him, and 
regretted he had not kept it to give it me himself — would to 
Heaven he had ? Till Harding’s death I was in his power; 
and he had so used it, that I had vowed, on our arrival in Eng- 
^luhrdTtcrTthscond, hide myself forever, go I cared not where, 
nor in what character! But he is dead, and I am free ; my 
tale need be told to none, and if I can I will break from this 
fatal spell, and redeem the past; but it seems, as if fiends 
urged me still to the path of evil! Would that I had but cou¬ 
rage to tell all to Mr. Howard, I should be safer then; but I 
cannot — cannot — the risk is too great. Carriage wheels ! ” 
he added, starting up — “ my aunt and Caroline ; oh, how I re¬ 
joiced when they told me at the lodge that my uncle was not 
here ! ” And in his extreme agitation at the thought of meet¬ 
ing his aunt, he forgot his sister, or he might have been startled 
at the effect of his words. 


CHAPTER YIII. 

THE STRUGGLE. 

Mrs. Hamilton had been told at the lodge of her nephew’s 
arrival, and so powerful was her emotion, that she leaned back 
in the carriage, as it drove rapidly from the lodge to the Hall, 
without the power of uttering a word. Caroline was surprised, 



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for his return seemed to her only a cause of rejoicing ; she had 
no idea of the mingled dread and joy, the trembling, lest Ed¬ 
ward had indeed deceived them all, and, if he had not, the re¬ 
doubled mystery of Ellen’s conduct. While he was absent she 
could think calmly on him as the cause of all, but now that he 
was returned, her heart seemed to turn sick with apprehension, 
and she had hardly strength to inquire where he was, and great 
was her surprise when she found his arrival was still unknown. 
Caroline’s joyful exclamation as she ran into the school-room 
to put away some of her purchases, drew her there at once ; 
and for the first five minutes the intense thankfulness that he 
was indeed safe and comparatively well — that whatever might 
be the secret change, his affection for her, to judge by the 
warmth and agitation of his embrace, was unchanged, and she 
had that to work on, alone occupied her mind and enabled her 
to regain her calmness. 

“You do indeed look as if you wanted English air and home 
nursing, my dear boy,” she said, after some little time had 
elapsed, and Edward had seated himself by her, his hand still 
clasped in hers; “ Sir Edward was quite right to invalid you. 
Emmeline does nothing but talk of your wounds as making you 
a complete hero; I am unromantic enough to wish that you had 
brought me home more color and more flesh, and less glory; 
but, I suppose from being so pale, you are more like your poor 
mother than ever; ” and she looked at him so earnestly, that 
Edward’s eyes, spite of all his efforts, sunk beneath hers. He 
answered gayly, however, and, in reply to Caroline’s numerous 
queries, entered into an animated description of their voyage 
home and the causes of their detention, in their being so often 
compelled to put into port from the fearful storms they had 
encountered, and time slipped away so fast that the dinner-bell 
rung before any one was prepared. 

That Ellen should look paler than even when she had left 
her in the morning, and be still more silent, did not astonish 
Mrs. Hamilton; the agitation of meeting her brother was quite 
enough to occasion it; and she advised her to remain quiet 
while they were at dinner, that she might rejoin them afterward. 
She looked as if she had been so very lately ill, that Edward 
was not surprised at her having dined already; but many little 
things that occurred during the evening — her excessive quiet¬ 
ness, the evident restraint between her and Caroline, and, he at 
first fancied, and then was quite certain, between her and his 
aunt, startled and perplexed him. She seemed restrained, and 
shy, too, with him, as if in constant terror. Poor child! her 


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aunt had advised quietness while alone, and her brother’s words 
rung in her ears, till repose seemed farther off than ever. After 
all she had suffered before, and after the sending that fatal let¬ 
ter, it had never reached him: she had utterly failed in her at¬ 
tempt to save him. If she had, indeed, confided at first in Mrs. 
Hamilton, measures would have been taken, she was sure, to 
have secured him the necessary relief, for whenever her uncle 
had sent him his allowance it was through Sir Edward, not en¬ 
countering the risk of the loss of the letter. There had been 
times when, in the midst of her sufferings, Ellen could realize 
a sort of comfort in the idea that she had saved Edward and 
kept his secret; but where was this comfort now? All she had 
endured, all she was still to endure, was for nothing, worse than 
nothing; for if Edward knew her sin, feeling that it had brought 
him no good, and given up, as she felt he must be, to unrestrain¬ 
ed passion, or he could not have given vent to such fearful sen¬ 
timents, she actually trembled for its effect upon him and his 
anger on herself. She had sometimes fancied that, perhaps, his 
errors were not so great as he believed them, that he would 
confess them when he found only his kind, indulgent aunt at 
home, and so peace and hope gradually dawn for both him and 
her. All her wish, her hope now was that Mrs. Hamilton 
could be prevailed upon not to tell him what she had done^ for 
whether it made him think he ought to confess himself its cause 
or not, its effect on him would be so terrible, that she felt any 
additional suffering to herself could be better borne. 

With these thoughts, no wonder she was silent, utterly un¬ 
able to subdue them as she wished, and evince natural interest 
in all that had occurred to Edward ; and tell him all that had 
happened to herself during their long separation. Caroline, 
however, was so animated; and when Emmeline and Miss 
Harcourt returned, unable to comprehend what they could pos¬ 
sibly be sent for a full hour earlier than usual, the astonishment 
and delight at seeing Edward, prevented any thing like a pause 
in conversation, or unnatural restraint. His cousins found so 
much to tell as well as to listen to, about Percy and Herbert, 
as well as themselves ; and Emmeline made Edward tell her 
such minute particulars of their engagements with the pirates, 
and how he was wounded, and what Sir Edward said to him, 
that Mrs. Hamilton, anxious as she was — for the longer she 
was with her nephew, the more convinced she was that he 
could not meet her eye, and that his gayety was not natural — 
could not help being amused in spite of herself. 

Engrossed with thought how to arrive at the truth, for which 
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she ardently longed, she entered the library, when the prayer- 
bell rung, with her children ; quite forgetting, till she had taken 
the place at the reading-desk, which, in the absence of her 
husband and sons, she always occupied herself, that she had 
intended to desire Ellen to resume her usual place by Emme¬ 
line, wishing to spare her any additional suffering the first 
night of Edward’s return, and to prevent any painful feeling on 
his part. It was an oversight, but it vexed her exceedingly. 
She looked hastily round, in the hope of being in time, but 
Ellen was already in her place, though she had evidently 
shrunk still more into the recess of the low r er window, as if 
longing for its massive curtains to hide her, and her face was 
buried in her hands. Mrs. Hamilton would have been still 
more grieved, if she had seen, as Ellis did, the beseeching, 
humble look, which, as they entered, Ellen had fixed upon her, 
and that her pale lips had quivered with the half-uttered sup¬ 
plication, which she failed in courage to fully pronounce. Ed¬ 
ward appeared too wrapped in his own thoughts to notice it 
then; and as his aunt’s gentle but impressive voice fell on his 
ear, the words, the room, the whole scene so recalled the 
happy, and comparatively innocent past, that it was with diffi¬ 
culty he could restrain his feelings, till the attitude of kneeling 
permitted them full vent in tears, actual tears, when he had 
thought he could never weep again. The contrast of his past 
and present self, rendered the one more brightly happy, the 
other more intensely dark than the actual reality. The un¬ 
checked faults and passions of his early childhood had been the 
sole cause of his present errors ; but, while under the gentle 
control of his aunt and uncle, and Mr. Howard, he had not 
known these faults, and, therefore, believed they had all come 
since. He longed intensely to confide all his errors, all his re¬ 
morse, to Mr. Howard, whom he still so dearly loved; but he 
knew he had not courage to confess, and yet hated himself for 
his cowardice. 

Only too well accustomed to control, he banished every trace 
of tears (from all save the eye rendered even more than usual¬ 
ly penetrating from anxiety) as he arose, and became aware, 
for the first time, that Ellen was not where he was accustomed 
to see her. He kissed her fondly as she hurriedly approached 
him; but perceiving she left the room with merely a faint 
good-night to the rest of the family, and no embrace, as usual, 
from Mrs. Hamilton, he darted forward, seized his aunt’s hand, 
and exclaimed — 

“ What is the matter with Ellen, aunt Emmeline ? Why is 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


307 


she so changed, and why is your manner to her so cold and 
distant ? and why did she kneel apart, as if unworthy to join 
us even in prayers ? Tell me, for pity’s sake ! ” 

“ Not to-night, my dear Edward. It is a long tale, and a 
painful one, and I rely on you to help me, that Ellen and my¬ 
self may be again as we. have been. It is as much pain to me 
as to her that we are not. To-morrow, I promise you, you 
shall know all. You have had excitement enough for to-day, 
and after your exhausting voyage must need rest. Do not 
fancy this an evasion of your request; I have longed for your 
return to influence Ellen, almost as much as for the happiness 
of seeing you again.” 

Edward was compelled to be satisfied and retire; but though 
he did feel sufficient physical exhaustion, for the comfort of his 
room to be unusually luxurious, his sleep was restless and dis¬ 
turbed by frightful dreams, in which, however varied the posi¬ 
tion, it always seemed that he was in danger, and Ellen sacri¬ 
ficing herself to save him. 

On retiring for the night, Mrs. Hamilton discovered a note 
on her dressing-table. She thought she knew the writing, but 
from tremulousness it was so nearly illegible, that it was with 
great difficulty she deciphered the following words : 

“ I am so conscious I ought not to address you, know so well 
that I have no right to ask any favor from you, when I have 
given you so much trouble and pain, that I could not have 
asked it, if you had not been so very, very kind this morning. 
Oh! aunt Emmeline, if indeed you can feel any pity for me, 
do not, pray, do not tell Edward the real reason of my banish¬ 
ment from Oalcwood ; tell him I have been very wicked — have 
refused to evince any real repentance — but do not tell him 
what I have done. He is ill, unhappy at having to resign his 
profession even for a few months. Oh ! spare him the misery of 
knowing my sin. I know I deserve nothing but severity from 
you — I have no right to ask this — but, oh! if you have ever 
loved me, do not refuse it. If you would but grant it, would 
but say, before I go, that in time you will forgive me, it would 
be such comfort to the miserable — Ellen.” 

Mrs. Hamilton’s eyes filled with tears ; the word “ your ” 
had evidently been written originally, but partially erased, and 
“ the ” substituted in its stead, and she could not read the utter 
desolation of one so young, which that simple incident betrayed, 
without increase of pain ; yet to grant her request was impossi- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


308 

ble. It puzzled her — for why should she so persist in the 
wish expressed from the beginning, that Edward should not 
know it ? unless, indeed — and her heart bounded with the 
hope — that she feared it would urge him to confess himself 
the cause, and her sacrifice be useless. She locked up the 
note, which she would not read again, fearing its deep humility, 
its earnest supplication, would turn her from her purpose, and 
in praying fervently for guidance and fitful sleep, her night 
passed. 

For some time after breakfast the following morning, Ed¬ 
ward and his aunt were alone together in the library. It was 
with the utmost difficulty, he suppressed, sufficiently to conceal, 
the fearful agitation which thrilled through every nerve as he 
listened to the tale he had demanded. He could not doubt 
the use to which that money had been applied. His sister’s 
silence alone would have confirmed it; but in that hour of 
madness — for what else is passion unrestrained by principle 
or feeling ? — he was only conscious of anger, fierce anger, 
against the unhappy girl who had borne so much for him. He 
had utterly forgotten the desperate words he had written. He 
had never received the intended relief. Till within a week, a 
short week of his return, he had been in Harding’s power, and 
as Ellen’s devotion had saved him nothing, what could it weigh 
against the maddening conviction, that if he had one spark of 
honor remaining, he must confess that he had caused her sin ? 
Instead of saving, she had betrayed him ; and he left his aunt 
to seek Ellen, so evidently disturbed and heated, and the inter¬ 
view itself had been so little satisfactory in softening him, as, 
she had hoped, to win him to confession at once, for she had 
purposely spoken as indulgently of error and difficulty as she 
could, without betraying her strengthened suspicions, that if she 
had known how to do so, she would have forbidden his seeing 
Ellen till he was more calm. 

Unhappily, too, it was that part of the day when Ellis was 
always most engaged, and she was not even in her own room, 
so that there was no check on Edward’s violence. The control 
lie had exercised while with his aunt but increased passion 
when it was removed. He poured forth the bitterest re¬ 
proaches — : asked how she could dare hope relief so obtained, 
would ever have been allowed to reach him ? — what had she 
done but betrayed him ? for how could he be such a dishonored 
coward as to let her leave Oakwood because she would not 
speak ? and why had she not spoken ? — why not betrayed him 
at once, and not decoyed him home to disgrace and misery ? 


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Passion had so maddened him that he neither knew what he 
said himself, nor heard her imploring entreaties not to betray 
himself and she never would. She clung to his knees as she 
kneeled before him, for she was too powerless to stand, reite¬ 
rating her supplication in a tone that ought to have recalled 
him to his better self, but that better self had been too long 
silenced, and infuriated at her convulsive efforts to detain him, 
he struck her with sufficient force to make her, more by the 
agony of a blow from him, than the pain itself, loose her hold 
at once, and darted from the room. 

The hall door was open, and he rushed through it unseen 
into the park, flying he neither knew where nor cared, but 
plunging into the wildest part. How he arrived at one par¬ 
ticular spot he knew not, for it was one which, of all others, in 
that moment of excitement, he would gladly have avoided. It 
was a small glade in the midst of the wood, shelving down to 
the water’s edge, where he and Percy, with the assistance of 
Robert, had been permitted to erect a miniature boat-house, 
and where Edward had kept a complete flotilla of tiny vessels. 
There were the trees, the glade, the boat-house still, ay, and 
the vessels, in such beautiful repair and keeping, that it brought 
back the past so vividly, so overpoweringly, from the voiceless 
proof which it was of the affectionate remembrance with which 
he and his favorite tastes had been regarded, even in his ab¬ 
sence, that he could not bear it. He flung himself full length 
on the greensw r ard, and as thought after thought came back 
upon him, bringing Ellen before him, self-sacrificing, devoted, 
always interposing between him and anger, as she had done 
from the first hour they had been inmates of Oakwood, the 
thought of that craven blow, those mad reproaches, was insup¬ 
portable ; and he sobbed for nearly an hour in that one spot, 
longing that some chance would but bring Mr. Howard to him, 
that he might relieve that fearful remorse at once ; but utterly 
unable to seek him of himself. 

Edward’s disposition, like his mother’s, was naturally much 
too good for the determined pursuit of evil. His errors had 
actually been much less grave, than from Harding’s artful repre¬ 
sentations he imagined them. He never indulged in passion 
without its being followed by the most agonized remorse; but 
from having pertinaciously banished the religion which his aunt 
had so tried to instil, and been taught by Harding to scoff at 
the only safe guide for youth, as for every age, God’s holy Word, 
he had nothing whereon to lean, either as a comfort in his remorse, 
a hope for amendment, or strength for self-conquest; and terri- 


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ble indeed might have been the consequences of Harding’s fatal 
influence, if the influence of a home of love had not been still 
stronger. 

Two hours after he had quitted his aunt, he rejoined the . 
family, tranquil, but bearing such evident traces of a mental 
struggle, .at least so Mrs. Hamilton fancied, for no one else 
noticed it, that she still hoped she did not exactly know what, 
for she failed in courage to ask the issue of his interview with 
Ellen. She contented herself with desiring Emmeline to tell 
her'cousin to bring her work or drawing, and join them, and 
she was so surprised, when Emmeline brought back word that 
Ellen had said she had much rather not, that she sought her 
herself. 

Ellen’s cheeks, in general so pale, were crimson, her eyes in 
consequence unnaturally brilliant, and she looked altogether so 
unlike herself, that her aunt was more anxious than ever; nor 
did her manner, when asked why she refused to join them, 
when Edward had so lately returned, tend to decrease the 
feeling. 

“ Emmeline did not say you desired it, or I should have known 
better than disobey,” was her reply, and it was scarcely disre¬ 
spectful ; the tone seemed that of a spirit, crushed and goaded 
to the utmost, and so utterly unable to contend more, though 
every nerve was quivering with pain. Mrs. Hamilton felt bitter 
pain that Ellen at length did indeed shrink from her; that the 
disregard of her entreaty concerning her brother appeared so to 
have wounded, that it had shaken the affection which no other 
suffering had had power to move. 

“ I do not desire it, Ellen, though I wish it, she replied, 
mildly; “ you are of course at liberty to act as you please, 
though I should have thought it most natural that, not having 
been with Edward so long, you should wish to be with him as 
much as possible now he is at home.” 

“ He will not wish it; he hates me, spurns me, as I knew he 
would, if he knew my sin! To-day I was to have gone to 
Seldon Grange ; let me go at once! then neither he, nor you, 
nor any one need be tormented with me any more, and you will 
all be happy again ; let me go, aunt Emmeline ; what should I 
stay for ? ” 

“ If you wish it, Ellen, you shall go next week. I did not 
imagine that under any circumstances, you could have expressed 
a desire to leave me, or suppose that it would make me' par¬ 
ticularly happy to send you away.” 

“Why should it not? you must hate me, too, or—or you 


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311 


would not have refused the only — only favor I asked you before 
I went,” answered poor Ellen, and the voice, which had been 
unnaturally clear, was choked for the moment with sobs, which 
she resolutely forced back. Mrs. Hamilton could scarcely bear 
it; taking her ice-cold hands in both hers, she said, almost 
tenderly — 

“ You have reason to condemn me as harsh and cruel, Ellen; 
but time will perhaps explain the motives of my conduct, as I 
trust and pray it will solve the mystery of yours; you are not 
well enough to be left long alone, and Ellis is so much engaged 
to-day that I do wish you to be with me, independent of your 
brother’s society. If you so much prefer remaining here, I will 
stay with you, though of course, as Edward has been away 
from us so long, I should wish to be with him also.” 

It was almost the first time Mrs. Hamilton had ever had 
recourse in the management of her family to any thing that was 
not perfectly straightforward; and though her present motives 
would have hallowed much deeper stratagems, her pure mind 
shrunk from her own words. She wished Ellen to be constantly 
in Edward’s presence, that he might not be able to evade the 
impulse of feeling and honor, which the sight of such suffering, 
she thought, must call forth; she could not bear to enforce this 
wish as a command, when she had already been, as she felt — if 
Ellen’s silence were indeed self-devotion, not guilt — so cruelly 
and so unnecessarily severe. Ellen made neither reply nor 
resistance, but, taking up her work, accompanied her aunt to 
the usual morning-room, from which many a burst of happy 
laughter, and joyous tones were echoing. Caroline and Emme¬ 
line were so full of enjoyment at Edward’s return, had so many 
things to ask and tell, were so perfectly unsuspicious as to his 
having any concern with his sister’s fault, that if they did once 
or twice think him less lively and joyous, than when he left 
home, they attributed it simply to his not having yet recovered 
the exhausting voyage and his wounds. Miss Ilarcourt, just as 
unsuspicious, secretly accused Ellen as the cause of his occa¬ 
sional abstraction: her conduct was not likely to pass unfelt by 
one so upright, so honorable, and if he had been harsh with her, 
as from Ellen’s fearfully shrinking manner, and complete silence 
when they were together, she fancied, she thought it was so 
deserved, that she had no pity for her whatever. 

The day passed briskly and happily enough, in seeming to 
Mrs. Hamilton and Edward, in reality to all the other members 
of the party — but one. The great subject of regret was Mr. 
Howard’s absence; he might be back at the rectory that eve- 


312 


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ning, and Emmeline was sure he would come to see Edward 
directly. As the hours waned, Ellen became sensible of a sharp 
and most unusual pain darting through her temples, and gra¬ 
dually extending over her forehead and head, till she could 
scarcely move her eyes. It had come at first so suddenly, and 
lasting so short a time, that she could scarcely define what it 
was, or why she should have felt so suddenly sick and faint; 
but it increased, till there was no difficulty in tracing it, and be¬ 
fore prayer-time, had become such fearful agony, that, if she 
had not been inured to pain of all kinds, and endowed with 
extraordinary fortitude and control, she must more than once 
have betrayed it by either giving way to faintness, or scream¬ 
ing aloud. She had overheard Mrs. Hamilton desire Robert 
to request Mr. Maitland to come to Oakwood as soon as he 
could, and not hearing the reply that he was not expected 
home till late at night, expected him every moment, and 
thought he would give her something to relieve it, without her 
complaining. 

Edward had asked his cousins for some music, and then to 
please Emmeline, had sketched the order of their engagement 
with the pirates, and no one noticed her, for Mrs. Hamilton’s 
heart was sinking with disappointed hope, as the hours passed, 
and there was no sign to prove that her surmise was correct, 
and if it were, that the truth would be obtained. 

The prayer-bell rung, and as they rose, Edward’s eyes, for 
the first time since she had joined them, sought and fixed them¬ 
selves on his sister’s face. The paroxysm of pain had for a 
few minutes subsided, as it had done alternately with violence 
all day, but it had left her so ghastly pale, that he started in 
actual terror. It might have been fancy, but he thought there 
was the trace of his cowardly blow on her pale forehead, raised, 
and black, and such a feeling of agony and remorse rushed 
over him, that it was with difficulty he restrained himself from 
catching her in his arms, and beseeching her forgiveness before 
them all; but there was no time then, and they proceeded to 
the library. Every step Ellen took appeared to bring back 
that fearful pain, till as she sat down, and then knelt in her 
place, she was sensible of nothing else. 

The service was over; and as Mrs. Hamilton rose from the 
private prayer, with which each individual concluded his devo¬ 
tions, her nephew stood before her, white as marble, but with 
an expression of fixed resolution, which made her heart bound 
up with hope, at the very moment it turned sick and faint with 
terror. 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


313 


Several of the lower domestics had quitted the library before 
Edward regained voice, and his first word, or rather action, was 
to desire those that remained to stay. 

“ My sister has been disgraced, exposed before you all,” he 
exclaimed, in a tone of misery and determination, that so start¬ 
led Miss Harcourt and his cousins, they gazed at him bewilder¬ 
ed, “ and before you all must be her exculpation. It was less 
for her sin than her silence, and for the increased guilt which 
that appeared to conceal, you tell me, she has been so severely 
treated. Aunt Emmeline, I am the cause of her silence — I 
was the tempter to her sin — I have deceived my commander, 
deceived my officers, deceived you all — and instead of being 
what you believe me, am a gambler and a villain. ' She has 
saved me again and again from discovery and disgrace, and but 
for her sin and its consequences would have saved me now. 
But what has sin ever done but to betray and render wretched? 
Take Ellen back to your love and care, aunt Emmeline, and 
tell my uncle, tell Sir Edward the wretch I am! ” 

For a full minute after these unexpected, startling words 
there was silence, for none could speak, not even Emmeline, 
whose first thought was only joy, that Ellen’s silence was not 
so guilty as it seemed. Edward had crossed his arms on the 
reading-desk, and buried his face upon them. The instantane¬ 
ous change of sentiment which his confession excited toward 
Ellen in those most prejudiced can scarcely be described; but 
Mrs. Hamilton, now that the words she had longed for, prayed 
for, had been spoken, had scarcely strength to move. Address 
Edward she could not, though she felt far more pity toward 
him than anger; she looked toward Ellen, who still remained 
kneeling, though Ellis stood close by her, evidently trying to 
rouse her, and with a step far more hurried, more agitated than 
her children or household had ever seen, she traversed the 
long room, and stood beside her niece. 

“ Ellen,” she said, as she tried to remove the hands which 
clasped the burning forehead, as if their rooted pressure could 
alone still that agonizing pain, “ my own darling, devoted Ellen! 
look up, and forgive me all the misery I have caused you. 
Speak to me, my child ! there is nothing to conceal now, all 
shall be forgiven — Edward’s errors, difficulties, all for your 
sake, and he will not, I know he will not, cause you wretched¬ 
ness again ; look up, my poor child ; speak to me, tell me you 
forgive me.” 

Ellen unclasped her hands from her forhead, and looked up 
in Mrs. Hamilton’s face. Her lips moved as if to speak, but 
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in a moment an expression of agony flitted over her face, a cry 
broke from her of such fearful physical pain, that it thrilled 
through the hearts of all who heard, and consciousness desert¬ 
ed her at the same moment that Mr. Maitland and Mr. Howard 
entered the room together. 


CHAPTER IX. 

ILLNESS AND REMORSE. 

It was indeed a fearful night which followed the close of our 
last chapter. Illness, sufficient to occasion anxiety, both in 
Herbert and Ellen, had been often an inmate of Oakwood, but 
it had merely called for care, and all those kindly sympathies, 
which render indisposition sometimes an actual blessing, both 
to those who suffer and those who tend. But illness, appearing 
to be but the ghastly vehicle of death, clothed in such fearful 
pain that no control, even of reason and strong will, can check 
its agonized expression, till at last, reason itself succumbs 
beneath it, and bears the mind from the tortured frame, this is 
a trial of no ordinary suffering, even when such illness has been 
brought about by what may be termed natural causes. But 
when it follows, nay, springs from mental anguish, when the 
sad watchers feel that it might have been averted, that it is the 
consequence of mistaken treatment, and it comes to the young, 
to whom such sorrow ought to be a thing unknown, was it mar¬ 
vel that Mrs. Hamilton, as she stood by Ellen’s bed, watching 
the alternations of deathlike insensibility with paroxysms of 
pain, which nothing could relieve, (for it was only the com¬ 
mencement of brain fever,) felt as if she had indeed never 
known grief or anxiety before. She had looked forward to Ed¬ 
ward’s confession bringing hope and rest to all; that the aching 
head and strained nerves of her poor Ellen, only needed re¬ 
turning love, and the quietness of assured forgiveness for herself 
and Edward, for health and happiness gradually to return ; and 
the shock of such sudden and terrible illness, betraying, as it did 
an extent of previous mental suffering, which she hacl not con¬ 
ceived as possible in one so young, almost unnerved her. But 
hers was not a character to give way; the anguish she ex¬ 
perienced might be read in the almost stern quiet of her face, 



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in her gentle but firm resistance to every persuasion to move 
from Ellen’s bed, not only through that dreadful night, but for 
the week which followed. The idea of death was absolute 
agony; none but her God knew the struggle, day after day, 
night after night, which she endured, to compel her rebellious 
spirit to submission to His will, whatever it might be. She 
knew earth’s dearest, most unalloyed happiness could not com¬ 
pare with that of Heaven, if indeed it should be His pleasure 
to recall her ; but the thought would not bring peace. She had 
no reason to reproach herself, for she had acted only as impera¬ 
tive duty demanded, and it had caused her almost as much 
misery as Ellen. But yet the thought would not leave her, that 
her harshness and cruelty had caused all the suffering she be¬ 
held. She did not utter those thoughts aloud, she did not dare 
give words to that deep wretchedness, for she felt her only sus¬ 
taining strength was in her God. The only one who would 
have read her heart, and given sympathy, strength, comfort, 
without a word from her, her husband, was far away, and she 
dared not sink ; though there were times when heart and frame 
felt so utterly exhausted, it seemed as if she must. 

Mr. Howard’s presence had been an inexpressible relief. 
“ Go to Edward, my dear friend,” she had said, as he lingered 
beside the bed where Ellen had been laid, longing to comfort, 
but feeling at such a moment it was impossible; “he wants 
you more than any one else ; win him to confide in you, soothe, 
comfort him ; do not let him be out of your sight.” 

Not understanding her, except that Edward must be natur¬ 
ally grieved at his sister’s illness, Mr. Howard sought him, and 
found him still in the library, almost in the same spot. 

“ This is a sad welcome for you, Edward,” he said, kindly 
laying his hand on his shoulder, but do not be too much cast 
down. Ellen is very young, her constitution, Mr. Maitland as¬ 
sures us, is good, and she may be spared us yet. I came over 
on purpose to see you, for late as it was when I. returned from 
Exeter, and found you had arrived, I would not defer it till to¬ 
morrow.” 

“ You thought you came to see the pupil you so loved,” an¬ 
swered Edward, raising his head, and startling Mr. Howard, 
both by his tone and countenance. “ You do not know that I 
am the cause of my poor sister’s suffering, that if she dies, I 
am her murderer. Oh, Mr. Howard,” he continued, suddenly 
throwing himself in his arms, and bursting into passionate tears, 
“ why did I ever leave you ? why did I forget your counsels, 
your goodness, throw your warning letter to the winds ? Hate 


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me if you will, but listen to me — pity me, save me from my¬ 
self.” 

Startled as he was, Mr. Howard, well acquainted with the 
human heart, its errors, as well as . its better impulses, knew 
how to answer this passionate appeal, so as to invite its full 
confidence and soothe at the same time. Edward poured out 
his whole tale. It is needless to enter upon it here in detail; 
suffice it, that the artful influence of Harding, by gradually 
undermining the good impressions of the home he had left, had 
prepared his pupil for an unlimited indulgence in pleasure, and 
excitement, at every opportunity which offered. And as the 
Prince William was cruising off the coast of British America, 
and constantly touching at one or other of her ports, where 
Harding, from his seniority and usefulness, and Edward, from 
his invariable good conduct, were often permitted to go ashore; 
these opportunities, especially when they were looked for and 
used by one practised in deceit and wickedness, were often 
found. It does not require a long period to initiate in gambling. 
The very compelled restraint, in the intervals of its indulgence, 
but increased its maddening excitement, and once given up to 
its blind pursuit, Harding became more than ever necessary to 
Edward, and of course his power over him increased. But 
when he tried to make him a sharer and conniver in his own 
low pleasures, to teach him vice, cautiously as he thought he 
had worked, he failed; Edward started back appalled, and 
though unhappily he could not break from him, from that hour 
he misdoubted and shrunk away. But he had given an advan¬ 
tage to his fell tutor, the extent of which he knew not himself. 
Harding was too well versed in art to betray disappointment, 
lie knew when to bring wine to the billiard-table, so to create 
such a delirium of excitement, that Edward was wholly uncon¬ 
scious of his own actions ; and once or twice he led him into 
scenes, and made him sharer of such vicious pleasures, that se¬ 
cured him as his slave ; for when the excitement was over, the 
agony of remorse, the misery, lest his confiding captain should 
suspect him other than he seemed, made him cling to Harding’s 
promises of secrecy, as his only refuge, even while he loathed 
the man himself. It was easy to make such a disposition be¬ 
lieve that he had, in some moment of excitement, done some¬ 
thing which, if known, would expel him the Navy; Edward 
could never recall what, but he believed him, and became des¬ 
perate. Harding told him it was downright folly to think about 
it so seriously. It was only known to him, and he would not 
betray him. But Edward writhed beneath his power ; perpe- 


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tually he called on him for pecuniary help, and when he had 
none, told him he must write home for it, or win it at the bil¬ 
liard-table, or he knew the consequences ; and Edward, though 
again and again he had resolved he would not touch a ball or 
cue, (and the remorse had been such, that he would no doubt 
have kept the resolve, had it not been for dread of betrayal,) 
rather than write home, would madly seek the first opportunity, 
and play, and win perhaps enough, all but a few pounds, to 
satisfy his tormentor, and for these he would appeal to his 
sister, and receive them, as we know; never asking, and so 
never hearing, the heavy price of individual suffering at which 
they were obtained. 

The seven or eight months which had elapsed before his last 
fatal appeal, had been occasioned by the ship being out at sea. 
Sir Edward had mentioned to Mr. Hamilton, that Edward’s 
excellent conduct on board had given him a longer holiday on 
shore, when they were off New York, to which place he had 
been despatched on business to the President, than most of his 
companions. Edward thought himself safe, for Harding had 
been unusually quiet; but the very day they neared land, he 
told him he must have some cash, sneered at the trifling sum 
Edward had by him, told him if he chose to let him try for it 
fairly, they should have a chance at billiards for it; but if that 
fail, he must pump his rich relations for it, for have it he must. 
Trusting to his luck, for he had often won, even with Harding, 
he rushed to the table, played, and as might be expected, left 
off, owing his tormentor fifty pounds. Harding’s fiendish tri¬ 
umph, and his declaration that he must trouble him for a check 
to that amount, signed by the great millionaire, Arthur Hamil¬ 
ton, Esq., goaded him to madness. He drank down a large 
draught of brandy, and deliberately sought another table and 
another opponent, and won back fifteen ; but it was the last day 
of his stay on shore, as his enslaver knew, and it was the wretch¬ 
edness, the misery of his heavy debt to the crafty, merciless 
betrayer of his youthful freshness and innocence, who had 
solemnly sworn if he did not pay it by the next letters from his 
home, he would inform against him, and he knew the conse¬ 
quences, which had urged that fearful letter to Ellen, from 
which all her suffering had sprung. Edward was much too 
young and ignorant of the world’s ways to know that Harding 
no more dared execute his threat against him, than he could put 
his own head in the lion’s mouth. His remorse was too deep, 
his loathing of his changed self too unfeigned, to believe that 
his errors were not of the heinous, fatal nature which Harding 
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tauglit him to suppose them; and the anguish of a naturally fine, 
noble, independent spirit may be imagined. All his poor mo¬ 
ther’s lessons of his uncle’s excessive sternness, and determined 
pitilessness, toward the faults of those less firm and worthy than 
himself, returned to him, completely banishing his own expe¬ 
rience of that same uncle’s excessive kindness. The one feel¬ 
ing had been insensibly instilled in his boyhood, from as long 
as he could remember, till the age of twelve; the other was 
but the experience of eighteen short months. Oh, if parents 
would but think and tremble at the vast importance of the first 
lessons which reach the understanding of the young beings 
committed to their care ! Let them impress truth, not pre¬ 
judice, and they are safe. Once fix a false impression, and 
they know not, and it is well, perhaps, they do not, the misery 
that tiny seed may sow. 

Mr. Howard listened with such earnest, heartfelt sympathy, 
such deep commiseration, that his young penitent told him 
every error, every feeling, without the smallest reserve; and 
in the long conversation which followed, he felt more com¬ 
forted, more hopeful of himself, than he had done for long, 
long months. He told, with such a burst of remorseful agony, 
his cruelty to his devoted sister, that Mr. Howard could scarcely 
hear it unmoved, for on that subject there seemed indeed no 
comfort; and he himself, though he would not add to Edward’s 
misery by confessing it, felt more painfully self-reproached for 
his severity toward her than his conduct as a minister had 
ever excited before. 

“ Be with me, or rather let me be with you as much as you 
can,” was Edward’s mournful appeal, as their long interview 
closed ; “ I have no dependence on myself — a weak, miserable 
coward! longing to forsake the path of evil, and having neither 
power nor energy to do so. I know you will tell me, pray — 
trust. If I had not prayed, I could not have confessed — but 
it will not, I know it will not' last.” 

“It will, while enduring this heavy trial of your poor sister’s 
terrible illness, and God’s infinite mercy may so strengthen you 
in the furnace of affliction, as to last in returning joy. Despair, 
and you must fall; trust, and you will hope and struggle — de¬ 
spite of pain or occasional relapses. Your faults are great, but 
not so great as Harding represented them — not so heavy but 
that you can conquer and redeem them, and be yet all we have 
believed you, all that you hoped for in yourself.” 

“ And my uncle — ” said Edward, hesitatingly. 

“ Must be told; but I will answer for him that he will be 


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319 


neither liarsli nor unjust, nor even severe. I will write to him 
myself, and trust to convince him that your repentance, and re¬ 
solution are sufficiently sincere, to permit you a second trial, 
without referring to Sir Edward. You have done nothing to 
expel you from your profession; but it depends on yourself to 
become truly worthy of its noble service.” 

There was much in the sad tale he had heard to give hope, 
and Mr. Howard longed to impart its comfort to Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton ; but he felt she could not listen. While day after day 
passed, and the poor sufferer for another’s errors lay hovering 
between life and death, reason so utterly suspended, that even 
when the violent agony of the first seven days and nights had 
subsided into lethargic stupors, alternating with such quiet sub¬ 
mission and gentle words, that, had it not been for their wander¬ 
ing sense, one might have fancied intellect returning ; still rea¬ 
son was absent — and, though none said it aloud, the fear 
would gain dominion, that health might return, but not the 
mind. The first advice had been procured — what was dis¬ 
tance, even then, to wealth ? — every remedy resorted to. Her 
luxuriant hair cut close, and ice itself applied to cool that burn¬ 
ing, throbbing pain; but all had seemed vain, till its cessation, 
at the end of seven days, somewhat renewed Mr. Maitland’s 
hope. 

Not one tear had Mrs. Hamilton shed, and so excessive had 
been her fatigue, that Miss Harcourt and her cliildren trembled 
for her; conjuring her, for their sakes, for her husband’s, to 
take repose. Mr. Maitland’s argument, that when Ellen re¬ 
covered her senses (which he assured her now he had little 
doubt she would eventually,) she would need the soothing com¬ 
fort of her presence still more than she could then, and her 
strength must fail before that — if she so exhausted it — carried 
more weight than all the rest; and her daughters had the inex¬ 
pressible relief of finding that when, in compliance with their 
tearful entreaties, she did lie down, she slept, and slept refresh¬ 
ingly, for nature was exhausted. There was much of comfort 
in those days of trial, which Mrs. Hamilton fully realized, when 
Ellen’s convalescence permitted her to recall it, though at the 
time it seemed unnoticed. That Caroline’s strong mind and 
good heart should urge her to do every thing in her power to 
save her mother trouble, even to entreat Ellis and Morris to 
show her, and let her attend to the weekly duties with them, 
and accomplish them so earnestly and well, that both these 
faithful domestics were astonished and delighted, was not sur¬ 
prising ; for hers was a character to display its better qualities 


320 


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in such emergencies. But that Emmeline should so effectually 
rouse herself* from the overwhelming grief, which had at first 
assailed her at Ellen’s fearful sufferings and great danger, as 
to be a comfort alike to her mother and Edward, and assist 
Caroline whenever she could, even trying to be hopeful and 
cheerful for others’ sakes, till she actually became so, was so 
unexpected, from the grief she had indulged in when she parted 
from her father, that it did surprise. To be in the room with 
Ellen had so affected her at first, that she became pale, and so 
evidently terrified, that Mrs. Hamilton half desired her not to 
come, especially as she could do no good; and Mrs. Greville 
and Mary had tried to prevail on her to stay with them, but 
she would not hear of it. 

“ If I can do no good, can neither help mamma in nursing 
Ellen, nor do as Caroline does, I can, at least, try to comfort 
poor Edward, and I will not leave him. If I am so weak as 
not to be able to endure anxiety and sorrow without showing 
it, it shall not conquer me. No, no, dear Mary ; come and see 
me as often as you like, but I cannot leave home till mamma 
and Ellen and we are all happy again! ” 

And she did devote herself to Edward, and so successfully — 
with her gentle sympathy with his grief, her tender feeling to¬ 
ward his faults, her conviction of her father’s forgiveness, her 
unassuming but heart-breathing piety, which, without one word 
unduly introduced of a subject so holy, for she felt herself much 
too lowly and ignorant to approach it — yet always led up his 
thoughts to God, and from one so young, so humble, and, in 
general, so joyous, had still greater effect in confirming his re¬ 
turning religious hope, than had his teachers been only those 
who were older and wiser than himself. However miserable 
he might be before she came, he looked to her society, her elo¬ 
quence, as comfort and hope ; and soon perceiving this, she 
was encouraged to go on, though quite astonished — for she 
coul<j| not imagine what she had done to deserve such commend¬ 
ation — when Mr. Howard, one day meeting her alone, took 
both her hands in his, and with even unusual fervor bade God 
bless her! — for young, lowly as she was, she not only comfort¬ 
ed the erring, but raised and strengthened the penitent’s trem¬ 
bling faith and hope. 

Poor Edward! harder than all seemed to him his aunt’s 
silence. He knew his sister entirely engrossed her — ill as 
Ellen was, it could not be otherwise; but he passionately 
longed only for one word from her : that she forgave him the 
misery she was enduring. Not aware that such was his feel- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


821 


mg, conscious herself that her sole feeling toward him was 
pity, not anger, and looking to herself alone as the cause of her 
poor child’s sufferings, she did not think for a moment that he 
could imagine her never referring to his confession originated 
in displeasure. 

Ten or twelve days had so passed, when one afternoon, com¬ 
pletely exhausted with two nights’ watchfulness — for though 
nurse Langford and Fanny were in constant attendance on 
Lllen, she could not rest if she heard that harrowing cry for 
her, even though her presence brought no comfort — she went 
to lie down for a few hours on a couch in her dressing-room. 
Caroline had taken a book, though with not much inclination 
to read, to sit by her, and watch that her sleep should not be 
disturbed. How in those moments of quiet did she long for 
her father! feeling intuitively how much heavier was her 
mother’s trial without his loved support. He had been written 
to by them all since Edward’s confession. Mrs. Hamilton had 
done so in Ellen’s room, only to beseech him to write forgiv¬ 
ingly, forbearingly to the unhappy cause of all. She did not 
dare breathe her feelings, even on paper, to him, convinced 
that if she did so, control must give way, and she was power¬ 
less at once ; but her husband knew her so well that every 
suppression of individual emotion betrayed, more forcible than 
the most earnest words, all she was enduring. 

Caroline had kept her affectionate vigil nearly two hours, 
when Edward’s voice whispered, “ Miss Harcourt wants you, 
dear Caroline ; let me take your place, I will be quite as watch¬ 
ful as yourself ^ only let me stay here, you do not know the 
comfort it will be.” 

To resist his look of pleading wretchedness was impossible. 
She left him, and Edward drawing a low stool to the foot of 
the couch, as if not daring to occupy his cousin’s seat, which 
was close by the pillow, gazed on the mild, gentle features of 
his aunt, as in their deep repose they showed still clearer the 
traces of anxiety and sorrow, and felt more keenly than ever 
the full amount of misery, which his errors and their fatal con¬ 
cealment had created. “ Why is it,” he thought, “ that man 
cannot bear the punishment of his faults without causing the 
innocent, the good, to suffer also ? ” And his heart seemed to 
answer, “ Because by those very social ties, the strong im¬ 
pulses of love for one another, which would save others from 
woe, we may be preserved and redeemed from vice again, and 
yet again, when, were man alone the sufferer, vice would be 
stronger than remorse, and never be redeemed.” 


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Mrs. Hamilton woke with that painful start which long 
watchfulness always occasions, and missing Caroline, yet feel¬ 
ing as if she were not alone, her eyes speedily fixed themselves 
in some surprise on the figure of her nephew, who, unable to 
bear the thoughts the sight of her exhaustion produced, had 
bent his head upon the couch. Inexpressibly touched, and glad 
of the opportunity to speak to him alone, she called him to her, 
and there was something in the tone that encouraged him to 
fling himself on his knees by her side, and sob like an infant, 
saying, almost fharticulately — 

“ Can you, will you ever forgive me, aunt Emmeline ? Your 
silence has almost broken my heart, for it seemed to say you 
never could; and when I look at my poor Ellen, and see how 
I have changed this happy home into sorrow and gloom, and 
sin, for it is all my work — mine, whom you have loved, treated, 
trusted, as a son — I feel you cannot forgive me; I ought to go 
from you; I have no right to pollute your home.” 

“ Hush, Edward ! do not give utterance or indulgence to 
any such thoughts. My poor, unhappy boy ! your errors have 
brought such fearful chastisement from the hand of God him¬ 
self, it is not for me to treat you harshly. May His mercy 
avert yet severer trial! I will not hear your story now ; you 
are too agitated to tell it, and I am not at this moment strong 
enough to hear it. I am satisfied that you have confided all to 
Mr. Howard, and will be guided by him. Only tell me how 
came you first to apply to Ellen? Did the thought never 
strike you, that in sending relief to you, she might be exposing 
herself to inconvenience or displeasure ? Was there no con¬ 
sideration due to her ? ” 

“ I never seemed to think of her, except as glad and willing 
to help me, at whatever cost to herself,” was his reply. “ I feel 
now the cruel selfishness of the belief — but oh, aunt Emme¬ 
line, it was fostered in me from my earliest childhood, grew 
with my growth, increased with my years, received strength 
and meaning from my poor mother’s utter neglect of her, and 
too indulgent thought for me. I never thought so till now, now 
that I know all my poor sister’s meek and gentle worth, and it 
makes me still more miserable. I never could think her my 
equal; never could fancy she could have a will or wish apart 
from mine, and I cannot trace the commencement of the feel¬ 
ing ! Oh! if we had been but treated alike! but taught to so 
love each other, as to think of each other’s happiness above 
our own, as you taught my cousins ! ” 

“ Do you know any thing of the promise to which poor Ellen 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


f 323 

so constantly refers?” inquired Mrs. Hamilton, after gently 
soothing his painful agitation. 

He did not; but acknowledged that from the time they had 
become inmates of Oakwood, Ellen had constantly saved him 
from punishment by bearing the panalty of his faults; recalling 
numerous incidents, trifling in themselves, but which had always 
perplexed Mrs. Hamilton, as evincing such strange contradic¬ 
tions in Ellen’s childish character, and none more so than the 
disobedience which we related in our second part, and which 
Edward’s avowal of having himself moved the flower-stand, 
now so clearly explained. He said, too, that Mr. Howard had 
thought it necessary, for Ellen’s perfect justification, to examine 
her letters and papers, but that all his appeals to her had been 
destroyed but one — his last fatal inclosure, the exact contents 
of which he had so utterly forgotten, written, as they were, in 
a moment of madness, that he shuddered himself as he read it. 
He placed the paper in Mrs. Hamilton’s hand, conjuring her 
not to recall her forgiveness when she read it; but she must 
see it, it was the only amends he could make his poor Ellen, to 
exculpate her fully. Was it any wonder it had almost driven 
her wild ? or that she should have scarcely known the means she 
adopted to send him the relief, which, as he deserved, had never 
reached him. 

Mrs. Hamilton read the letter, and as thought after thought 
rose to her mind, connecting, defining, explaining Ellen’s con¬ 
duct from her fifteenth birth-day, the day she received it, to the 
discovery of her sin, and her devoted silence afterward, trifling 
incidents which she had forgotten returned to add their weight 
of evidence, and increase almost to agony her self-reproach, for 
not seeing the whole before, and acting differently. She re¬ 
membered now Ellen’s procrastination in writing to Edward, 
the illness which followed, and could well understand her dread 
lest the finding the notes should be traced to that day, and so 
throw a suspicion on her brother, and her consequent firmness 
in refusing to state the day she had found them. 

That long interview was one of inexpressible comfort to Ed¬ 
ward ; but though his unfeigned repentance and full confession 
gave his aunt hope for him, it did but increase her individual 
trial, as she returned to Ellen’s couch, and listened to wander¬ 
ings only too painfully explained by the tale she had heard. 


324 * 


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CHAPTER X. 

MISTAKEN IMPRESSIONS ERADICATED. 

It was the seventeenth day of Ellen’s illness, and for six-and- 
thirty hours she had slept, profoundly, waking only at very long 
intervals, just sufficiently to swallow a few drops of port wine, 
which Mr. Maitland had ordered to be administered if she 
woke, and sunk to sleep again. It was that deep, still, almost 
fearful repose, for it is so like death, which we can scarcely 
satisfy ourselves is life, except by holding a glass at intervals 
to the lips, to trace if indeed it receive the moisture of the breath. 
And nurse Langford, Mrs. Hamilton, and Edward had, through 
these long hours, watched and scarcely stirred. For they knew 
that on her waking hung hope or misery, return of intellect, or 
its confirmed suspension. Mr. Maitland had particularly wished 
Edward to be with her when she recovered her senses, that his 
presence might seem as natural as either of her cousins; but he 
warned him that the least display of agitation on his part, or 
reference to the past, in her exhausted state, might be fatal to 
her. It was quite the evening. Widow Langford had lighted 
the lamp, and sat down by the fire, scarcely able to breathe 
freely, from the intensity of her hope that Ellen would recover. 
And if such were her feelings, what were Edward’s and Mrs. 
Hamilton’s ? The former was kneeling on the right of the bed, 
his eyes alternately fixed on his sister, and buried in the cover¬ 
lid. Mrs. Hamilton was on the opposite side, close to Ellen’s 
pillow, the curtain drawn so far back, that the least change on 
the patient’s countenance was discernible. Hour after hour 
had so passed, the chimes that told their flight were scarcely 
heard by those anxious watchers. It was about eight o’clock, 
when a slight movement in Ellen made her aunt’s heart to 
throb, as almost to deprive her of breath; her eyes unclosed, 
and a smile, such as Mrs. Hamilton had not seen for weeks, 
nay. months circled her lips. 

“ Dear aunt, have I been ill ? It seems such a long, long 
time since I have seen you, and my head feels so strange, so 
light; and this room, it is my own, I know, but I feel as if it 
did not belong to me, somehow. Do make my head clear, I 
cannot think at all.” 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


* 325 


“ Do not try to think yet, darling. You have been very, very 
ill, and to endeavor to think might hurt you. Strength will 
soon return now, I hope, and then your head will be quite clear 
again,” returned Mrs. Hamilton, quietly and caressingly, though 
she so trembled with the change from sickening dread to certain 
hope, that she herself scarcely knew how she spoke at all. 

“ But what made me so ill, aunt ? I feel as if it were some 
great pain ; I cannot remember any thing clearly, but yet it 
seems as if I had been very unhappy — and that — that you 
did not love me any more. Did any thing make me ill? Was 
it really so ? ” 

“ That I did not love you, my Ellen ! Indeed, that was only 
fancy. You were very unhappy, as we were all, for Edward 
did not come as soon as we expected him, and the storms were 
very dreadful, and we feared his ship might have been wrecked, 
or cast ashore, somewhere very far off, where we could not hear 
of him; and when you saw him, and knew he was safe, the 
anxiety and pain you had undergone, made you ill; you know 
a little thing will do that, dearest.” 

“ But is he really safe, aunt Emmeline ? Where is he ? ” 

“ Close by you, love. He has been as watchful and anxious 
a nurse as I have been. Poor fellow, you have given him a 
sad welcome, but you must make up for it, by-and-by.” 

Ellen looked languidly, yet eagerly round, as her aunt spoke, 
and her gaze fixed itself on her brother, who was struggling 
violently to suppress the emotion which, at the sound of her 
voice, in connected words, nearly overpowered him; and still 
more so, when Ellen said, more eagerly than she had yet 
spoken — 

“ Dear Edward ! come and kiss me, and do not look so sad. 
I shall soon get well.” 

He bent over her, and kissed her repeatedly, trying in vain 
to say something, but he felt so choked, he could not; and Ellen 
held his hand, and looked earnestly, searcliingly in his face, as 
if trying painfully to define the vague thoughts and memories 
which seemed all connected with him and with pain, but which 
would not take a distinct form. Her eye wandered from him 
for a moment to nurse Langford, who had come to the foot of 
the bed, and that seemed another face connected with the blank 
past, and then it fixed itself again on Edward, and her pale 
lace so worked with the effort of thought, that Mrs. Hamilton 
became alarmed. She saw, too, that Edward was growing 
paler and paler, and trembled for the continuance of his con¬ 
trol. Taking Ellen’s hand gently from his, and arranging her 
28 


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pillow at the same time, so as to turn her face rather from him, 
she said, playfully — 

“ You have looked at Edward long enough, Ellen, to be 
quite sure he is safe at home. So now I shall be jealous if 
you give him any more of your attention and neglect me ; you 
must take some nourishment, and try to go to sleep again, for 
I must not have you try your strength too much.” 

“ If I could but remember clearly,” answered Ellen, sadly ; 
u it is all so vague — so dark — but I do not think it was only 
because he did not come, that made me so unhappy.” 

“ You are not going to be disobedient, dearest,” replied Mrs. 
Hamilton, firmly, though fondly, as she hastily signed to Ed¬ 
ward to leave the room, which he most thankfully did, never 
stopping till he reached his own, and tried to thank God for 
His great mercy, but could only sob. “ I told you not to think, 
because to do so might retard return of strength, and indeed 
you must try and obey me; you know I am very peremptory 
sometimes.” And the fond kiss with which she enforced the 
command seemed to satisfy Ellen, whose natural submissiveness, 
combined with excessive physical weakness, caused her to obey 
at once, and not attempt to think any more. She took the re¬ 
quired nourishment with returning appetite, and soon afterward 
fell quietly and happily to sleep again, her aunt’s hand closely 
clasped in hers. 

From that day, all fear of disordered intellect departed, and, 
gradually, the extreme exhaustion gave way before Mr. Mait¬ 
land’s judicious treatment. Strength, indeed, returned so slowly 
and almost imperceptibly, that it was necessary to count im¬ 
provement by weeks, not days. And when, six weeks after her 
first seizure, she was thought well enough to be carried to Mrs. 
Hamilton’s dressing-room, and laid on a couch there, it was a 
source of gratitude and rejoicing to all. But Mr. Maitland and 
Mrs. Hamilton soon saw, with intense anxiety, that with phy¬ 
sical strength, memory and thought had both fully returned, 
and that their consequence was a depression so deep, as effect¬ 
ually to retard her perfect recovery. She seemed to shrink 
from all attention, all kindness, as utterly undeserved, even from 
her cousins. She would look at Edward for half an hour to¬ 
gether, with an expression of suffering that made the heart 
actually ache. At times she would receive Mrs. Hamilton’s 
caressing and judicious tenderness as if it were her only com¬ 
fort, at others, shrink from it, as if she had no right to it. 

“ This will never do,” Mr. Maitland said, about ten days after 
Ellen’s removal into her daily quarters, and finding she was 


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327 


losing ground; “ there is something on her mind, which must 
be removed, even if to do so, you refer to the past. She re¬ 
members it all too clearly, I fear, so our not alluding to it does 
no good. You must be the physician in this case, my dear 
Mrs. Hamilton, for I am powerless.” 

But though she quite agreed with him, how to approach such 
a very painful subject required no little consideration; but, as 
is very often the case, chance does that on which we have ex¬ 
pended so much thought. 

One afternoon Ellen lay so still, so pale, on her couch, that 
Mrs. Hamilton bent over her to listen if she breathed, saying, 
as she did so, almost unconsciously — 

“ My poor Ellen, when shall I have the comfort of seeing you 
well and happy again?” 

Ellen hastily unclosed her eyes, for she was not asleep—it 
had been only the stupor of painfully-engrossing thought, ren¬ 
dering her insensible to all outward things, but her aunt’s voice 
aroused her, and it seemed an inexpressible relief to feel they 
were quite alone. Trying to rise, and clasping her hands, she 
said, in a tone of strong excitement — 

“Oh, aunt Emmeline, how can I be happy — how can I be 
well — when I think — think — that if it had not been for my 
sin, and the misery it brought on me, Edward might be safe 
still ? no one need have known his errors. I tried to save — 
and — and I have only betrayed, and made him wretched. All 
I suffered was for nothing, worse than nothing! ” 

“ Thank God, you have spoken, my dear child! I felt as if I 
dared not introduce the subject; but now that you have your¬ 
self, I think I shall be able, if indeed you will listen to me pa¬ 
tiently, Ellen, to disperse the painful mists, that are still press¬ 
ing so heavily on this poor little heart and brain,” she said, 
fondly, though seriously, as she put her arm round Ellen, to 
support her as she sat up. “I do not tell you it is not a natural 
feeling, my love, but it is a wrong one. Had your sin, in con¬ 
sideration of its being, as I am now convinced it was, wholly 
involuntary — for in the fearful state of mind Edward’s despe¬ 
rate letter occasioned, you could not have known or thought of 
any thing, but that relief seemed sent to your hand — had it on 
that account been permitted so far to succeed, as to give him 
the aid he demanded, and never have been traced to you, it 
would have confirmed him in the path of guilt and error, and 
poisoned your happiness forever. When you recall the agony, 
almost madness you felt, while burdened with the consciousness 
of such an act, how could you have borne it, if it had continued 


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through months, perhaps years ? You shudder; yet this must 
have been the case, and Edward would have persisted in error, 
if your sin had been permitted to succeed. Its detection, and 
the sufferings thence springing, terrible as they have been to 
you, my poor child, have saved him; and will, I trust, only 
bring securer happiness to you.” 

“ Saved him! ” repeated Ellen, half starting up, and scarcely 
hearing the last' words — “ saved Edward! ” 

“Wes, dearest, by leading him to a full confession, and giving 
him not only the inexpressible comfort of such a proceeding, 
but permitting him to see, that great and disappointing as his 
errors are, they can be conquered. They are not of the irre¬ 
mediable, guilt-confirming nature, that he was taught to suppose 
them from Harding’s own most guilty ends, and so giving him 
hope and resolution to amend, which a belief that amendment 
is impossible, entirely frustrates. Do not fear for Edward, my 
own love; he will give you as much pride and comfort as he 
has anxiety and grief; and you, under God’s merey, will have 
been the cause. It is a hard lesson to learn, and yet, Ellen, I 
"WlmdTone day, when you can look back more calmly on the last 
few months, you will acknowledge with me, that great as your 
sufferings have been, they were sent in love both to him and 
to you.” 

“ If they have saved him — saved him from a continuance 
in error, and so made him happy! — Oh, aunt Emmeline, I can 
think so now, and I will try-to bear the rest? but why,” she 
added, growing more excited, “oh, why have you been so good, 
so kind? Why did you not continue cold and distant? I could 
bear it better, then.” * 

“ Bear what, love? What have you more to bear ? Tell me 
all without reservp. Why should I be cold, when you deserve 
all my love and’ kindness ? ” 

“ Because — because, am I not to go to Seldon Grange, as 
soon as I am strong enough? Uncle Hamilton said, there 
could be no excusing cause demanding a complete avoidance of 
his sentence. I thought it was pain enough when you first told 
me; but now, now every time I think about it, it seems as if I 
could not bear it.” 

“ And you are not called upon to bear it, my dear child. Is 
it possible you could think for a. moment that I could send you 
away from me, when you have borne so much, and been treated 
with far too much severity already ? Did 1 not tell you that 
the term of your banishment depended entirely on the motive 
of your silence, and do you think there was no excuse in your 


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329 


motive, my Ellen, mistaken as it was ? Is self-devotion to be 
of no more account to me, tlian it seemed to you? Come, 
smile, dearest; I promise you, in your uncle’s name and my 
own, you shall never leave us, unless it be of your own free 
will and pleasure, a few years hence.” 

Ellen did try to smile, but she was too weak to bear this 
complete removal of a double burden without an emotion that 
seemed more like pain than joy. She laid her head on her 
aunt’s shoulder, and wept without restraint. They were the 
first tears she had shed since her illness, and Mrs. Hamilton 
thanked God for them. She did not attempt to check them, 
but the few words she did speak, told such affectionate sympa¬ 
thy, such perfect comprehension of that young heart, that Ellen 
felt as if a mountain of lead were dissolving from her. 

“And now, my Ellen, that I have relieved you of a painful 
dread, will you ease my mind of a great anxiety ? ” inquired 
Mrs. Hamilton, nearly an hour afterward, when Ellen seemed 
so relieved and calmed, that she could talk to her without fear. 

“ You look surprised; but it is a subject you alone can explain, 
and till it is solved, I shall never feel that your happiness is 
secure. What is this promise, to which in your illness you so 
constantly referred, and which, I fear, has strengthened you in 
the system of self-sacrifice for Edward’s sake, in addition to 
your love for him ? ” 

A deep flush rose to Ellen’s transparent cheek and brow, as 
she answered, falteringly — 

“ Ought I to tell you, dear aunt ? You do not know how 
often, how very often I have longed to ask you, if to keep it 
made me do wrong — whether I ought to break it ? And yet it 
seemed so sacred, and it gave poor mamma such comfort! ” 

“ When did you make it, love ? Its import I need not ask 
you, for you betrayed it, when you knew not what you said, and 
it was confirmed by your whole conduct. To shield Edward 
from blame or punishment, by never revealing his faults ? ” 

“Was it wrong?” murmured Ellen, hiding her conscious 
face. 

“ Wrong in you! no dearest; for you were too young to 
know all the pain and evil it was likely to bring. Tell me 
when, and how, it was taken; and I think I can prove to you 
that your poor mother would have recalled it, had she had the 
least idea of the solemn hold it had taken upon you.” 

Thus encouraged, Ellen narrated the scene that had taken 
place in widow Morgan’s cottage just before Mrs. Hamilton 
arrived; and her mother’s fears for Edward, and dread of Mr. 

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Hamilton, which it was very evident, and now more than ever, 
had extended to both her children. She said that Mr. Myrvin’s 
assurance, that her mother could see, and would love her in 
Heaven, directly following the promise, had given it still more 
weight and solemnity. That at first she thought it would be 
very easy to keep, because she loved Edward so dearly; but 
she had not been long at Oakwood before it made her very 
unhappy, from its constant interference with, and prevention of, 
her obedience and duty to her aunt; that it had often caused 
her violent headaches, only from her vain attempts to satisfy her¬ 
self as to that which she ought to do. When Edward first went 
to sea, and all seemed so right and happy with him, of course 
she became happier than she had ever been before. Then came 
his difficulties, and her conviction that she must save him and 
keep his secret. That her reason and her affection often urged 
her to confide all to her aunt, certain that she would not harshly 
condemn Edward, but would forgive and help him far more 
effectually than she could; but she dared not, for whenever she 
thought thus, the figure of her mother rose before her, seeming 
to reproach and threaten her for exposing the child she so dearly 
loved, to disgrace and ruin; and this was so vivid, so constant, 
during his last appeal, that she thought she must be going 
mad; that nothing but the dread of not being firm enough to 
keep Edward’s secret, had withheld her from confessing her sin 
at once to her aunt, especially when her uncle had so solemnly 
denounced it as theft, and that when it was discovered it seemed 
actual relief, though it brought such severe punishment, for she 
knew no suffering for her could be too severe. 

The tale, as Ellen told it, was brief and simple enough, and 
that there was any merit in such a system of self-devotion never 
seemed to enter her mind for a moment; but to Mrs. Hamilton 
it revealed such an amount of suffering and trial, such a quiet, 
systematic, heroic endurance, that she unconsciously drew that 
young delicate being closer and closer to her, as if her love 
should protect her in future from any sucli trial; and from what 
had it all sprung ? — the misery of years, at a period when life 
should be so joyous and so free, that care and sorrow flee it as 
purely and too briefly happy to approach ? Erom a few thought¬ 
less words, from a thoughtless, partial mother, whose neglect 
and dislike had pronounced that disposition cold, unloving and 
inanimate whose nature was so fervid, so imaginative, that the 
utmost care should have been taken to prevent the entrance of 
a single thought or feeling too precocious, too solemn for her 
years. It may be urged, and with truth, that to an ordinary 


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331 


child the promise might have been forgotten, or heedlessly laid 
aside, without any harm accruing from it, but it was from not 
caring to know the real character of the little being, for whose 
happiness and virtue she was responsible, that the whole mis¬ 
chief sprung; and it is this neglect of maternal duty against 
which we would so earnestly warn those who may not have 
thought about it. It is not enough to educate the mind, to pro¬ 
vide bodily necessaries, to be indulgent in the gift of pleasure 
and amusement, the heart must be won and taught; and to do 
so with any hope of success, the character must be transparent 
as the day; and what difficulty, what hinderance, can there, or 
ought there to be, in obtaining this important knowledge to a 
mother, from whose breast the babe has received its nourish¬ 
ment, from whose arms it has gradually slipped away to feel its 
own independence, from whose lips it has received its first les¬ 
sons, at whose knee lisped its first prayer ? How comparatively 
trifling the care, how easy the task to learn the opening dispo¬ 
sition and natural character, so as to guide with gentleness and 
love, and create happiness, not for childhood alone, though that 
is much, but for youth and maturity. 

All these thoughts passed through Mrs. Hamilton’s mind as 
she listened to her niece, and looked at the pale, sweet face 
lifted up to hers in the earnestness of her simple tale, as if un¬ 
consciously appealing for her protection against the bewildering 
and contending feelings of her own young heart. How she 
was effectually to remove these impressions of years, indeed she 
knew not; her heart seemed to pray for guidance that peace 
might at length be Ellen’s portion, even as she heard. 

“ You could scarcely have acted otherwise than you have 
always done toward Edward, my dear Ellen, under the influ¬ 
ence of such a promis-e,” she said; “ your extreme youth, na¬ 
turally enough, could not permit you to distinguish, whether it 
was called for by a mere impulse of feeling in your poor 
mother, or really intended. But tell me, do you think it would 
give me any comfort or happiness if I could see Emmeline act 
by Percy as you have done by Edward ? To see her suffer 
pain and sorrow, and be led into error, too, sometimes, to con¬ 
ceal Percy’s faults, and prevent their removal, when, by the 
infliction of some trifling pain, it would save his exposing him¬ 
self to greater ? ” 

“ But it seems so different with my cousins, aunt; they are 
all such equals. I cannot fancy Emmeline in my place. You 
have always loved them all alike.” 

“And do you not think a mother ought to do so, dearest ? ” 


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“ But how can she, if they are not all equally deserving ? I 
was so different to Edward; he was so handsome and good, 
and so animated and happy ; and I was always fretful and ill, 
and they said so often naughty; and he used to fondle poor 
mamma, and show his love, which I was afraid to do, though 
I did love her so very much, (the tears started to her eyes,) so I 
could not help feeling he must be much better than I was, just 
as I always feel all my cousins are, and so it was no wonder 
poor mamma loved him so much the best.” 

“ Have I ever made any difference between Edward and 
you, Ellen ? ” asked Mrs. Hamilton, conquering, with no small 
effort, the emotion called forth by Ellen’s simple words. 

“ Oh, no, no ! ” and she clung to her in almost painful emo¬ 
tion. “ But you are so good, so kind to everybody ; you would 
love me, and be kind to me as poor papa was, because nobody 
else could.” 

“ My dear Ellen, what can I do to remove these mistaken 
impressions ? I love you, and your father loved you, because 
you have qualities claiming our love quite as powerfully as 
your brother. You must not imagine because you may be less 
personally and mentally favored, that you are inferior to him, 
either in the sight of your Heavenly Father, or of the friends 
and guardians He has given you. And even if such were the 
case, and you were as undeserving as you so wrongly imagine 
yourself, my duty, as that of your mother, would be just the 
same. A parent does not love and guide her children accord¬ 
ing to their individual merits, my dear Ellen, but according to 
the fountain of love which, to enable her to do her duty, God 
has so mercifully placed in her heart; and therefore those who 
have the least attractions and the most faults, demand the 
greater cherishing to supply the place of the one, and more 
careful guiding to overcome the other. Do you quite under¬ 
stand pie, love ? ” 

Ellen’s earnest face, on which joy and hope seemed strug¬ 
gling with doubt, was sufficient answer. 

“ All mothers do not think of their solemn responsibility in 
the same light; and many causes — sad recollections and self- 
reproaches for her early life, and separation in coldness from 
her father and myself, might all have tended to weaken your 
mother’s consciousness of her duty, and so, without any fault in 
yourself, my Ellen, have occasioned her too great partiality for 
Edward. But do you remember her last words ? ” 

Ellen did remember them, and acknowledged they had so 
increased her affection for her mother, as to render the promise 
still more sacred to her. 


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333 


“ I feared so, dearest; but it is just the contrary effect which 
they should have had. When she called you to her, and bless¬ 
ed and kissed you as fondly as she did Edward, she said she 
had done you injustice, had failed in her duty to you, and it so 
grieved her, for it was too late to atone for it then ; she could 
only pray to God to raise you up a kinder parent. I have 
tried to be that, for her sake, as well as your own; and will 
you not acknowledge, that if she had been spared to love and 
know your affection for her, she could no more have borne to 
see you suffer as you have done for Edward, than I could my 
Emmeline for Percy ? Do you not think, when she had learn¬ 
ed to feel as I do, which she had already begun to do, that she 
would have recalled that fatal promise, and entreated you not 
to act upon it ? What has it ever done but to make you so 
painfully suffer, lead you often into error, and confirm, by con¬ 
cealment, Edward’s faults ? ” 

Ellen’s tears were falling fast and freely, but they were hardly 
tears of pain. Her aunt’s*words seemed to disperse a thick 
mist from her brain and heart, and for the first time, to satisfy 
her that she might dismiss the painful memory of her promise, 
and dismiss it without blame or disobedience to her mother. 

Mrs. Hamilton had begun the conversation in trembling, for 
it seemed so difficult to accomplish her object without undue 
condemnation of her sister; but as Ellen, clasping her arms 
about her neck, tried to thank her again and again, for taking 
such a heavy load from her heart, saying that she would still 
help Edward just the same, and she would try to guard him 
and herself from doing wrong, that her mother should love her 
still, she felt she had succeeded, and silently, but how fervently, 
thanked God. 

“ But will you tell me one thing, aunt Emmeline ? Why, 
if the promise were mistaken, and poor mamma would have 
wished it recalled, did I always seem to see her so distinctly, 
and fancy she so desired me to save Edward from my uncle’s 
displeasure ? ” 

“ Because you have a very strong imagination, my love, in¬ 
creased by dwelling on this subject; and in your last trial your 
mind was in such a fearful and unnatural state of excitement, 
that your imagination became actually diseased. It was not at 
all surprising; for much older and stronger, and wiser persons 
would have experienced the same, under the same pressure of 
grief, and terror, and remorse. But what can I do, to cure 
this morbid imagination, Ellen ? ” she continued, playfully; 
“ sentence you, as soon as you get well, to a course of mathe¬ 
matics, six hours each day ? ” 


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“ I am afraid my poor bead will be more stupid at figures 
than ever,” replied Ellen, trying to smile, too. 

“ Then I suppose I must think of something else. Will you 
follow Emmeline’s example, and tell me every thing, however 
foolish or unfounded it may seem, that comes into this little 
head — whether it worries or pleases you ? You have nothing, 
and you will have nothing ever again, I trust, to conceal from 
me, my dear Ellen ; and if you will do this, you will give me 
more comfort individually, and more security for the further¬ 
ance of your happiness, as far as my love can promote it, than 
any other plan.” 

Her playfulness had given place to renewed earnestness, and 
Ellen, as if in the very thought of such perfect confidence 
dwelt security and peace, so long unknown to her, gave the re¬ 
quired assurance so eagerly and gratefully, that Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton was satisfied and happy. 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE LOSS OF THE SIREN. 

From that day, Ellen’s recovery, though a sad trial of pa¬ 
tience both to the young invalid and her affectionate nurses, 
was surely progressive, without any of those painful relapses 
which had so tried Mr. Maitland’s skill before. She no longer 
shrunk from the society of her relations, receiving Caroline’s 
and Miss Harcourt’s many kind attentions with surprise indeed, 
for she could not imagine what could have so altered their 
feelings toward her, but with that evident gratitude and plea¬ 
sure, which encourages a continuance of kindness. Emmeline 
was always kind, but it was indeed happiness to feel she might 
talk with and share her amusements, as in former days; and 
that, instead of thinking she ought not to receive her aunt’s 
affection, the only thing she asked in return was her full con¬ 
fidence. The inexpressible rest to poor Ellen which that con¬ 
versation gave is not to be described. It was so blessed, so 
soothing, that it seemed too unnatural to last, and the secret 
dread that her uncle would not feel toward her and Edward as 
her aunt did was its only alloy. Edward, too, was cheerful, 
and almost happy when with her; and a long conversation 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


with Mr. Howard, which that worthy man insisted upon hav¬ 
ing as soon as she was strong enough, to remove the false im¬ 
pressions which his severity had given, and which never ceased 
to grieve and reproach him, caused his almost daily visits to be 
anticipated by her with as much gladness as they had before 
brought dread. 

“And now that anxiety for Ellen is at an end, I must have 
you take more care of yourself, Mrs. Hamilton. Your hus¬ 
band’s last injunctions were, that I should never pass a week 
without calling once or twice at Oakwood to know how all was 
going on, and what would he say to me if he could see you 
now ? ” 

“ He little thought how my strength would be tried, my good 
friend, and so will quite acquit you. I assure you that, phy¬ 
sically, I am perfectly well ” — (the worthy doctor shook his 
head most unbelievingly) — “ but even with one great anxiety 
calmed, there remains another, which every week increases. 
It is more than double the usual time of hearing from my hus¬ 
band. We have never had any answer to the letters detailing 
Ellen’s danger and Edward’s return, and the answers have 
been due a full month.” 

“ But the weather has been so unusually tempestuous, it may 
have been impossible for the Siren to ply to and fro from Feroe 
to Scotland, as Hamilton wished, and ho ships are likely to 
touch at those islands in the winter. I really think you need 
not be anxious on that score ; none but Arthur Hamilton’s 
head could have contrived your hearing as regularly from such 
an outlandish place as you have done. No news is good news, 
depend upon it. He may be anxious on your account, and 
returning himself.” 

“ God forbid! ” answered Mrs. Hamilton, turning very pale ; 
“ better the anxiety of not hearing from him than the thought 
of his being at sea in this season.” 

Oakwood had resumed its regular happy aspect, though 
Ellen was still up-stairs. Morris and Ellis had once more 
the happiness of their beloved mistress’s superintendence, and 
proud were they both, as if Caroline had been their own child, 
to show all she had done, and so unostentatiously, to save her 
mother trouble when she had been too anxious to think of any 
thing but Ellenand the mother’s heart swelled with a deli¬ 
cious feeling of gratitude to Him who, if in making her so 
acutely sensible of her solemn responsibility had deepened and 
extended anxiety , had yet in the same measure heightened and 
spiritualized joy. The fruit was indeed worth the nurture, 


336 


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though it might have been often washed with tears. Intensely 
anxious as she felt herself 1 , as did also Mr. Howard and Mr. 
Maitland, and, in fact, all Arthur Hamilton’s friends, she yet 
tried to sustain the spirits of her children, for the young men 
had evidently grown anxious on the subject too. It was not 
unlikely that the seas round Feroe, always stormy, should pre¬ 
vent any ship leaving the island, and the young people eagerly 
grasped the idea: so painful is it to youth to realize a cause 
for anxiety; but even they, at times, grew unconsciously sad and 
meditating, as the usually joyous season of Christmas and New 
Year passed, and still there was no letter. Ellen and Edward 
both in secret dreaded the arrival of the answer to the latter’s 
confession; but still their affection for Mrs. Hamilton was too 
powerful to permit any thought of self interfering with the 
wish that her anxiety might be calmed. 

In January the weather changed; the tremendous winds 
gave place to an almost unnatural calm, and to such excessive 
mildness and closeness of atmosphere, that it affected the health 
of many who were strong, and not only made Ellen very lan¬ 
guid, but frequently recalled those dreadful headaches which 
were in themselves an illness. Business called Mr. Howard to 
Dartmouth near the end of the month, and he prevailed on Ed¬ 
ward to accompany him, for whenever his sister was more than 
usually suffering his gloom redoubled. The first few days were 
so fine that the change renovated him; Mr. Howard declared 
it was the sight of old ocean, and Edward did not deny it; for 
though it was good for the permanence of his repentance and 
resolution to amend, to have the influence of his home suffi¬ 
ciently long, his spirit inwardly chafed at his detention, and 
yearned to be at sea again, and giving proof of his determina¬ 
tion to become indeed a British sailor. 

The third day of their visit, the lull and heaviness of the air 
increased so strangely and closely, for January, as to seem 
almost portentous. Edward and Mr. Howard lingered on the 
beach; the well-practised eye of the former tracing, in many 
little things unseen to landsmen, the slow, but sure approach of 
a fearful storm. 

“ It is strange for the season, but there is certainly electricity 
in the air,” he said, directing Mr. Howard’s attention to ridges 
of white-fringed clouds floating under the heavens, whose murky 
hue was becoming denser and denser; and ever and anon, as 
lashed by some as yet silent and invisible blast, the ocean 
heaved and foamed, and gave sure evidence of approaching 
fury; “ there will be, I fear, a terrible storm to-night; and 


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337 


look at those birds,” (several sea-gulls were skimming along the 
waves almost bathing their white plumage in the blackened 
waters), “strange how they always herald tempest!. Emmeline 
would call them spirits of the blast, revelling in the destruction 
it foretells! ” 

“ It is approaching already,” rejoined Mr. Howard, as a long 
hollow blast moaned and shivered round them, followed by the 
roar of a mountainous wave bursting on the beach. “ God have 
mercy on all exposed to its fury ! ” and he gladly turned more 
inland, while Edward remained watching its progress with an 
almost pleasurable feeling of excitement, only wishing he 
could but be on the sea, to enjoy it as such a storm deserved 
to be. 

As the day drew to a close it increased, and as darkness set 
in, its fury became appalling. Blasts, long and loud as the re¬ 
verberation of artillery, succeeded one another with awful ra¬ 
pidity, tearing up huge trees by the roots, and tiles from the 
roofs. Now and then, at distant intervals, blue lightning played 
through the black heavens, betraying that thunder had mingled 
with the wind, though it was impossible to distinguish the one 
sound from the other; and as the gusts passed onward, streaks 
of white and spots of strange unnatural blue gleamed through 
the gloom for a moment’s space, leaving deeper darkness as 
they disappeared. The ocean, lashed to wildest fury, rolled in 
huge mountains of troubled waters, throwing up showers of 
snowy foam, contrasting strangely with the darkness of earth 
and heaven, and bursting with a sound that deadened for the 
time even the wild roar of the blast. To read or even to con¬ 
verse, in their comfortable quarters in the hotel, which over¬ 
looked the sea, became as impossible to Mr. Howard as to Ed¬ 
ward. About eleven o’clock, however, the wind suddenly veered 
and lulled, only sending forth now and then a long sobbing wail, 
as if regretful that its work of destruction was even checked; 
but the sea raged with equal fury, presenting a spectacle as 
magnificent, as awful, and giving no appearance of a calm. A 
sharp report sounded suddenly from the sea — whether it was 
the first, or that others might have been lost in the tumult of 
the winds and waves, who might answer ? Another, and another, 
at such rapid intervals, that the danger was evidently imminent, 
and Edward started to his feet. Again — and he could bear it 
no longer. Hurriedly exclaiming, “ They are signals of distress 
and close at hand ! Something must be done ; no sailor can sit 
still, and see sailors perish! ” he rushed to the beach, closely 
followed by Mr. Howard, who was resolved on preventing any 
29 


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mad attempt. Crowds of fishermen and townsmen had con¬ 
gregated on the beach, drawn by that fearful sound, which, by 
the light from the guns seemed scarcely half a mile distant; 
and yet so perilous was the present appearance of the ocean, 
that to go to their assistance seemed impossible. Suddenly, 
however, Edward’s voice exclaimed, with the glad and eager 
tone of perfect confidence, “ They can be saved! — a strong 
boat and two willing rowers, and I will undertake to reach the 
vessel, and bring the crew safe to shore. Who among you,” he 
continued, turning eagerly to the group of hardy fishermen, 
“ will be my assistants in this act of common humanity ? who 
possesses willing hearts and able hands, and will lend them ? ” 

“ No one who cares for his life ! ” was the sullen answer 
from one of those he addressed, and the rest stood silent, eye¬ 
ing, half disdainfully half admiringly, the slight figure of the 
young sailor, revealed as it was, in the fitful light of the many 
torches scattered by the various groups along the beach. “ It 
is well for boys to talk, we cannot expect old heads on young 
shoulders ; but not a boat with my consent leaves the harbor 
to-night; it would be wilful murder.” 

“ I tell you I will stake my life on the venture,” answered 
Edward, his passion rising high. “ Am I speaking to sailors, 
and can they hesitate when they hear such sounds ? Give me 
but a boat, and I will go by myself: and when you need aid, 
may you find those to give it! you will scarce dare ask it, if 
that vessel perish before your eyes. Lend me a boat, I say, 
fitted for such a sea, and the lender shall be rewarded hand¬ 
somely. If there be such risk, I ask none to share it; my life 
is my own, and I will peril it.” 

It would have made a fine scene for a painter, that young, 
slight form and boyish face, surrounded by those weather-beaten 
men, every countenance expressing some different emotion, yet 
almost all unwilling admiration; the torches’ glare, so lurid on 
the pitchy darkness ; the sheets of foam, rising and falling like 
showers of dazzling snow ; the craggy background; and, out 
at sea, the unfortunate vessel, a perfect wreck, struggling still 
with the fast-yising waters. Mr. Howard saw all, but with no 
thought of the picturesque, his mind was far otherwise en¬ 
gaged. 

“ By Neptune ! but your honor shall not go alone ! I have 
neither parent, nor sister, nor wife to pipe for me, if I go; so 
my life must be of less moment than yours, and if you can so 
peril it, why should not I ? ” exclaimed a stalwart young fisher¬ 
man, advancing, and Edward eagerly grasped his rough hand, 


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339 


conjuring him to get his boat at once, there was not a moment 
to lose ; but the example was infectious, and an old man has¬ 
tily stepped forward, declaring the youngsters had taught him 
his duty, and he would do it. 

“ Great God! what do they say ? ” exclaimed Edward, as 
his younger companion hastened down the beach to bring his 
boat to the leeward of the cliff, to launch it more securely, and 
a rumor ran through the crowds, whence arising it was impossi¬ 
ble to discover. “The Siren— Captain Harvey — my uncle’s 
ship ! — and he must be in her — she would never leave Feroe 
without him. What foundation is there for this rumor ? let me 
know, for God’s sake! ” 

But none could tell more than that a vessel, entering the 
harbor just before the gale, had hailed the Siren, about twenty 
miles distant, and she seemed laboring heavily, and in such a 
distressed state that a very little would finish her. Not a word 
escaped Edward’s lips, which grew for the moment blanched 
as marble. Mr. Howard, to whom the rumor had brought the 
most intense agony, for not a doubt of its truth would come to 
relieve him, was at his side, grasping his hand, and murmur¬ 
ing hoarsely — 

“Edward, my poor boy, must your life be perilled too? — 
both — both — this is awful! ” 

“ Let me but save him , and if I perish it will be in a good 
cause. Tell aunt Emmeline, I know she will comfort my poor 
Ellen ; and that the boy she has saved from worse misery than 
death, did all he could to save her husband! and if I fail ” — 
he stopped, in strong emotion, then added—“give Ellen this, 
and this,” he cut off a lock of his hair with his dirk, and placed 
it and his watch in Mr. Howard’s trembling hand. — “ And 
now, my friend, God bless you and reward you, too!” He 
threw himself a moment in Mr. Howard’s arms, kissed his 
cheek, and, darting down the beach, leaped into the boat, which 
was dancing like a nutshell on the water. It was several mi¬ 
nutes, ere they could succeed in getting her off, the waves seem¬ 
ing determined to cast her back; but they were fairly launched 
at°length, and then they heeded not that one minute they rode 
high on a mountain wave, seeming as if nothing could save 
them from being dashed in the abyss below ; the next were 
buried in a deep valley, surrounded by huge walls of water, 
threatening to burst and overwhelm them. I or a boat to 
live in such a sea at all seemed miraculous; and old Collins 
always declared that unless some angel sat at the helm with 
Edward, no human arm could have taken them in safety. If 


340 


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it were an angel, it was the pure thought, the faith-winged 
prayer, that he might be the instrument, in the Eternal’s hand, 
of turning aside death and misery from that beloved home, in 
which even his errors had been met with love , and conquered 
by forgiveness. 

With every effort, and they were such as to bid the. perspira¬ 
tion stream down the face and arms of those strong men, and 
almost exhaust Edward, for he took an oar in turn, it was full 
an hour from their leaving the shore before they reached the 
ship. She had ceased .firing, for by the lights on shore they 
had discovered the boat’s departure, and watched her progress 
by the lantern at her head, as only those can watch who feel, 
one short hour more, and their ship will float no longer ! 

Collins was spokesman, for Edward, as they grappled the 
boat alongside, had sunk down for the moment powerless by 
the helm; roused, however, effectually by the answer — 

“The Siren—-bound to Dartmouth — from Feroe — owner 
Arthur Hamilton, passenger — now on board — nine in crew.” 

“ In with you all then — that is Captain Harvey’s voice, I’ll 
be sworn; the rumor was only too true.” 

“Ay, old Collins!” returned the Captain; “we thought to 
perish in sight of our own homes; now, Mr. Hamilton, not a 
man will stir till you are safe! ” 

His companion leaped into the boat without reply, and, sink¬ 
ing on one of the benches, drew his cloak closely round his face. 
Peril was indeed still around him, but compared with the — 
even to that Heaven-directed heart — terrible struggle of be¬ 
holding death, rising slowly but surely round him in the water¬ 
filling ship, almost within sight and sound of his home, his be¬ 
loved ones, the mere hope of life seemed almost overpowering. 
The crew of the hapless Siren quickly deserted her. Captain 
Harvey was the last to descend, and, as he did so, a block of 
iron, loosened from its place, fell cornerwise, and struck sharply 
on Edward’s forehead, almost stunning him for the moment, as 
he watched the Captain’s descent. He felt the blood slowly 
trickling down his temple and cheek; but he was not one to be 
daunted by pain: he resumed his station at the helm in un¬ 
broken silence, only speaking when directions were absolutely 
necessary, and then only in a few brief sailor-terms. They had 
scarcely proceeded a third of their way, when the w r aters boiled 
and foamed as tossed by some strange whirlpool, and it required 
all Edward’s address and skill as steersman to prevent the frail 
boat from being drawn into the vortex. The cause was soon 
displayed, and every heart shuddered, for ten minutes later, and 


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341 


help would indeed have been in vain. The unfortunate vessel 
had sunk — been swallowed up in those rushing waters; the 
suction of so large a mass, producing for a brief interval the 
effect of a whirlpool. The silence of awe and of intense thank¬ 
fulness, fell on the heart of every man, and more than all on his, 
who had so far recovered his first emotion as to gaze wonder- 
ingly and admiringly on the boyish figure at the helm, whose 
voice was utterly unknown, and whose features the fitful light, 
and the youth’s steadfast gaze on his rowers, prevented his 
tracing with any certainty. 

The crowds had increased on the shore, watching with in¬ 
tense eagerness the return of the boat; but the expectation 
was too deep for sound, silence almost portentous reigned. A 
huge sea had concealed her for several minutes, and Mr. How¬ 
ard, who during these two long hours had remained spell¬ 
bound on the beach, groaned aloud in his agony; again she 
.was visible, driven on with fearful velocity by the tide, nearer, 
nearer still. He thought he could distinguish the figure of his 
friend: he was sure he could hear the voice of Edward, urging, 
commanding, directing a landing somewhere, in contradiction 
to the opinion of others. They were within a dozen yards of 
the shore, but still not a sound of gratulation was heard. Every 
eye was fixed, as in the fascination of terror, on a wave in the 
distance, increasing in size and fury as it rapidly approached. 
It neared the boat — it stood impending over the frail thing as 
a mighty avalanche of waters — it burst; the boat was seen no 
longer, and a wild and terrible cry sounded far and near along 
the beach! 


CHAPTER XII. 

FOREBODINGS. 

The whole of the day Mrs. Hamilton had vainly tried to 
shake off a most unwonted gloom. Convinced herself that it 
was greatly physical, from the unusual oppressiveness of the 
weather relaxing the nerves, which had so many months been 
overstrained, yet her thoughts would cling to Mr. Maitland’s 
words, that her husband might be coming home himself; but 
if the accounts of Ellen’s danger and Edward’s confession had 
recalled him, he ought to have arrived full two or three weeks 
29 * 



342 


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previous. The gale that swept round her — the awful and un¬ 
natural darkness — the remarkable phenomena, at that season, 
of lightning — and the long, loud thunder-claps * which inland 
could be fearfully distinguished from the gale, appalled the 
whole household; and therefore it was not much wonder that 
the vague idea of her husband’s having left Feroe, and expo¬ 
sure to such a tempest, should become in that fearful anxiety 
almost a certainty of agony. It was well, perhaps, that her 
unselfish nature had an object to draw her in some slight degree 
out of herself, for her firmness, her trust beyond the accidents 
of earth, all seemed about to fail her, and make her for the 
time being most wretched. As the storm and closeness in¬ 
creased, so did Ellen’s feverish restlessness ; her nerves, not 
yet fully restored, felt strung almost to torture with every flash, 
and clap, and blast. She tried to laugh at her own folly ; for, 
though often terrified, when a little child, at the storms in India, 
those of England had never affected her at all, and she could 
not understand why she should feel this so childishly. But 
argument is of little moment in such cases; and Mrs. Hamil¬ 
ton, satisfying her that she could no more help her present sen¬ 
sation than her physical weakness, tried to soothe and amuse 
her, and in so doing partially cheered herself. She did not 
leave her till past midnight; and then desiring Mrs. Langford 
to sit up with her till she was comfortably asleep, retired to her 
own bed-room. Never since her husband’s absence had its soli¬ 
tude felt so vast — so heavily oppressive ; thought after thought 
of him thronged her mind till she fairly gave up the effort to 
struggle with them. “ Will his voice ever sound here again, 
his heart give me the support I need ? ” rose to her lips, as she 
gazed round her, and the deep stillness, the gloom only broken 
by a small silver lamp, and the fitful light of the fire, seemed 
but a solemn answer. She buried her face in her clasped hands, 
and the clock struck two before that inward conflict permitted 
her once more to lift up heart and brow in meek, trusting faith 
to Him who still watched over her and her beloved ones ; and 
after an earnest, voiceless prayer, she drew her little table, with 
its books of devotion, to the fire, and read thoughtfully, prayer¬ 
fully, for another hour, and then sought her couch. But she 
could not sleep ; the wind had again arisen, and fearing to lie 
awake and listen to it would only renew her unusual agitation, she 

* These storms, as occurring in Devonshire, in both January and February, 
are no creation of the imagination; the author has heard them herself, and 
more than one officer in the Preventive Service has mentioned them as occur 
ring during the night-watches, and of awful violence. 


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rose at four, dressed herself, and throwing on a large shawl, 
softly traversed the passage, and entered her niece’s room; 
finding her, as she fully expected, as wakeful and restless as 
herself, with the addition of an intense headache. She had 
persuaded nurse Langford to go to bed, but the pain had come 
on since then, and made her more restless and feverish than 
before. She could not lie in any posture to get ease, till at 
last, about six o’clock, completely exhausted, she fell asleep, 
sitting almost upright in her aunt’s arms, her head leaning 
against her, as she stood by the bed-side. Fearing to disturb 
her, Mrs. Hamilton would not move, desiring the morning pray¬ 
ers to be said without her, and Miss Harcourt and her daughters 
not to wait breakfast, as she would have it with Ellen when she 
awoke. That she was stiff and exhausted with three hours’ 
standing in one position, she did not heed, perhaps scarcely felt, 
for woman’s loveliest attribute, that of a tender and utterly un¬ 
selfish nurse, was hers to perfection. But she did not refuse 
the cup of chocolate Caroline brought her herself, and with 
affectionate earnestness entreated her to take. 

“ You look so fatigued and so pale, dearest mother, I wish 
you would let me take your place; I would be so quiet, so gen¬ 
tle, Ellen would not even know her change of nurses.” 

“ I do not doubt your care, love, but I fear the least move¬ 
ment will disturb this poor child, and she has had such a rest¬ 
less night, I want her to sleep as long as she can. Your thoughtr- 
ful care has so refreshed me, that I feel quite strong again, so 
go and finish your breakfast in comfort, dearest.” 

Caroline very unwillingly obeyed, and about a quarter of an 
hour afterward, Mrs. Hamilton was startled by the sound of a 
carriage advancing with unusual velocity to the house. It 
stopped at the main entrance, and she had scarcely time to 
wonder who could be such very early visitors, when a loud 
scream, in the voice of Emmeline, rung in her ears ; whether 
of joy or grief she could not distinguish, but it was the voice 
of her child, and the already tortured nerves of the wife and 
mother could not bear it without a sensation of terror, amount¬ 
ing to absolute agony. She laid Ellen’s head tenderly on the 
pillow, watched over her, though her limbs so trembled she 
could scarcely support herself, saw with intense relief that the 
movement had not disturbed her quiet sleep, and calling Mrs. 
Langford from an adjoining room, hastily descended the stairs, 
though how she did so, and entered the breakfast-room, she 
always said she never knew. Many and eager and glad voices 
were speaking at once ; the very servants thronged the hall and 
threshold of the room, but all made way for her. 


344 


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“ Arthur ! — my husband ! ” she did find voice to exclaim, 
but every object but his figure reeled before her, and she faint¬ 
ed in his arms. 

It was some time before she recovered, for mind and frame 
had been too long overtasked; and Mr. Hamilton, as he clasp¬ 
ed her in his arms, beseeching her only to speak to him, and 
gazed on her deathlike Countenance, felt in a moment that great 
as his anxiety had been for her, he had not imagined one half 
she had endured. His voice — his kiss —seemed to rouse the 
scattered senses, even more effectually than Miss Harcourt’s 
anxiously proffered remedies ; but she could not speak, she 
only looked up in his face, as if to be quite, quite sure he had 
indeed returned; that her vague fancies of danger, even if they 
had foundation, had merged in the most blissful reality, that 
she was no longer alone ; and leaning her head on his bosom, 
was only conscious of a thankfulness too deep for Words; a re¬ 
pose that, since his departure, she had not known for a single 
day. Neither she nor her husband could believe that it was 
only six months since they had been separated. It seemed, 
and to Mrs. Hamilton especially, as if she must have lived 
through years in that time, it had been so fraught with sorrow. 

44 Not one word, my own dearest! and only these pallid 
cheeks and heavy eyes to greet me. Must I reproach you 
directly I come home, for, as usual, not thinking enough of 
yourself; forgetting how precious, is that self to so many, your 
husband above all ? ” 

44 Nay, papa, you shall not scold mamma,” said Emmeline, 
eagerly, as her mother’ tried to smile and speak in answer. 
44 She ought to scold you, for not sending us one line to prepare 
us for your unexpected presence, and frightening us all by com¬ 
ing so suddenly upon us, and making mamma faint, as I never 
saw her do before. Indeed I do not like it, mother darling! ” 
continued the affectionate girl, kneeling down by her mother, 
and clinging to her, adding, in a suppressed, terrified voice, 
44 It was so like death.” 

Mrs. Hamilton read in a moment that Emmeline’s playful¬ 
ness was only assumed to hide strong emotion; that she was 
trying very hard for complete control, but so trembling, that 
she knelt down, literally because she could not stand. It was 
such a proof of her endeavor to profit by her mother’s gentle 
lessons, that even at that moment it not only gave her the 
sweetest gratification, but helped her to rouse herself. 

44 Indeed, I think you are perfectly right, Emmy,” she said, 
quite in her usual voice, as she pressed her child a moment to 


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345 


her, and kissed her cheek, which was almost as pale as her 
own. “ I will not submit to any scolding, when papa himself 
is answerable for my unusual weakness; but as we wanted him 
so very much, why, we will be lenient with him, and only keep 
him prisoner with us for some time to come. But get him 
breakfast quickly, Caroline, love; such an early visitor must 
want it. When did you arrive, dearest Arthur ? ” she added, 
looking earnestly in his face, and half wondering at the expres¬ 
sion upon it, it seemed to speak so many things; “ surely not 
this morning? You were not at sea in yesterday’s awful 
storm ? ” 

“ I was indeed, my Emmeline ; can you bear to hear it, or 
have you been agitated enough already ? I have been in dan¬ 
ger, great danger, but our Father’s infinite mercy has preserved 
me to you all, making the instrument of my preservation so 
young a lad and slight a fram,e, I know not how sufficiently to 
bless God, or to thank my preserver.” 

Mrs. Hamilton’s hand closed convulsively on her husband’s; 
her eyes riveted on his countenance as if she would grasp his 
whole meaning at once, but little did she guess the whole. 

“ I did not come alone,” he added, striving for composure, 
and even playfulness, “ though it seems I was such an import¬ 
ant personage, as to be the only one seen or thought about.” 

“ By-the-by, I did see, or fancied I saw, Edward,” rejoined 
Caroline, who, at the news of her father having been in dan¬ 
ger, had left the breakfast-table, unable to keep away from 
him, even that short distance, but neither she, nor either of the 
others, connecting her cousin with Mr. Hamilton’s words, and 
not quite understanding why he should have so interrupted the 
most interesting subject. “ He has gone to see Ellen, I sup¬ 
pose, and so we have missed him. Was he your companion, 
papa ? How and where did you meet him ? ” 

“ Let him answer for himself! ” replied Mr. Hamilton, still 
determinately hiding his feeling under a tone and manner of 
jest, and leaving his wife’s side for a moment, he drew Edward 
from the recess of the window, where all this time he had been 
standing quite unobserved, and led him forward. 

“Good heavens! Edward, what have you been about?” 
exclaimed Miss Harcourt, and her exclamation was echoed by 
Caroline and Emmeline, while Mrs. Hamilton gazed at him 
in bewildered alarm. He was deadly pale, with every appear¬ 
ance of exhaustion, and a most disfiguring patch on his left 
brow, which he had tried in vain to hide with his hair. 

“You have been fighting.” 


346 


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“Only with the elements, Miss Harcourt, and they have 
rather tired me, that is all; I shall be well in a day or two. 
Don’t look so terrified, dear aunt,” he answered, with the same 
attempt at jest as his uncle, and throwing himself lightly on an 
ottoman by Mrs. Hamilton, he laid his head very quietly on 
her lap. 

“Fighting — and with the elements? Arthur, dearest Arthur, 
for pity’s sake tell me the whole truth at once; it cannot be —” 

“And why should it not, my beloved ? ” (there was no attempt 
at jest now.) “ He to whom your care has preserved a sister 

— whom your indulgent love has given courage to resolve that 
error shall be conquered, and he will become all we can wish 
him — whom you took to your heart and home when motherless 

— God has mercifully made the instrument of saving your hus¬ 
band from a watery grave, and giving back their father to your 
children! ” 

“ To be associated in your heart with other thoughts than 
those of ingratitude, and cruelty, and sin! Oh, aunt Emmeline, 
I cannot thank God enough for permitting me this great mercy,” 
were the only words poor Edward could speak, when the first 
intensity of his aunt’s emotion was in some degree conquered, 
and she could look in his young face, though her eyes were 
almost blinded with tears, and putting back the bright hair 
which the rain and spray had so uncurled, as to lay heavy 
and damp upon his pale forehead, she imprinted a long, silent 
kiss upon it, and looking alternately at him and her husband, 
seemed powerless to realize any other thought. 

Mr. Hamilton briefly, but most eloquently, narrated the events 
of the previous night, dwelling only sufficiently on his imminent 
peril, to evince the real importance of Edward’s extraordinary 
exertions, not to harrow the feelings of his listeners more than 
need be. That tlie young officer’s determined opposition to the 
almost angrily expressed opinions of Captain Harvey and old 
Collins as to the better landing-place, had saved them from the 
effects of the huge wave, which had burst like a water-spout a 
minute after they had all leaped in safety on shore, almost over¬ 
whelming the projecting sand to which Collins had wished to 
direct the boat, and so proving at once Edwards’s far superior 
nautical knowledge, for had they steered there, the frail bark 
must inevitably have been upset, and its crew washed by the 
receding torrent back to sea. Harvey and Collins acknowledged 
their error at once, and looked eagerly for Edward to say so to 
him, but he had vanished the moment they had achieved a safe 
landing, to Mr. Hamilton’s annoyance, for he had not the least 


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347 


suspicion who he was, and only longed to express, if he could 
not otherwise evince his gratitude, Collins and Grey refusing 
the smallest credit, declaring that if it had not been for this 
young stranger officer, of whom they knew nothing, not even 
his name, not a man would have stirred; that for any fisherman 
or mere ordinary sailor to have guided the boat to and from the 
sinking vessel, in such a sea, was so impossible, that no one 
would have attempted it; old Collins ending, with the supersti¬ 
tion of his class, by a declaration, that his disappearance con¬ 
vinced his already more than suspicion, that it was some good 
angel in a boy’s likeness; for Arthur Hamilton would never 
have been permitted so to perish: an explanation, Mr. Hamil¬ 
ton added, laughingly, that might suit his Emmy, but was rather 
too fanciful for him. However, his young preserver was no¬ 
where to be found, but, to his extreme astonishment, and no 
little relief (for now that he was so near home, his anxiety to 
hear of all, especially Ellen, whom he scarcely dared hope to 
find alive, became insupportable,) Mr. Howard suddenly stood 
before him, grasping both his hands, without the power, for a 
minute or two, to speak. Mr. Hamilton overwhelmed him with 
questions, scarcely giving him time to answer one before he 
asked another. They had nearly reached the hotel, when Cap¬ 
tain Harvey’s bluff voice was heard exclaiming — 

“ Here he is, Mr. Hamilton; he is too exhausted to escape 
our thanks and blessings now. What could the youngster have 
tried to hide himself for ? ” 

But before Mr. Hamilton could make any rejoinder, save to 
grasp the young man’s hands strongly in his own, Mr. Howard 
said eagerly — 

“ Oblige me, Captain Harvey; take that boy into our hotel, 
it is only just round the corner; make him take off his dripping 
jacket, and give him some of your sailor’s stuff. He is not 
quite strong enough for his exertions to-night, and should rest 
at once.” 

Captain Harvey bore him off, almost carrying him, for exer¬ 
tion and a variety of emotions had rendered him faint and 
powerless. 

u Do you know him, Howard ? who and what is he ? ” But 
Mr. Howard did not, perhaps could not reply, but hurried his 
friend on to the hotel; and entered the room, where, having 
called for lights, and all the ingredients of grog-puncli, which 
he vowed the boy should have instead of the brandy and water 
he had called for, they found Edward trying to laugh, and pro¬ 
testing against all coddling; he was perfectly well, and he would 


348 


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not go to bed, and could not imagine what right Captain Har¬ 
vey had to be a sailor, if he thought so much of a storm, and a 
blow, and a wetting. 

“ Nor should I, if you were sailor-rigged; but what business 
have you with this overgrown mast of a figure, and a face pale 
and delicate as a woman’s ? ” 

And so like his dying mother it was, that Mr. Hamilton stood 
for a moment on the threshold, completely stupefied. We leave 
our readers to imagine the rest; and how Captain Harvey car¬ 
ried the seemingly marvellous news that the brave young officer 
was Mr. Hamilton’s own nephew, over the |own, and in every 
fisherman’s hut, in a miraculously short space of time. 

We may as well state here at once, to save farther retrospec¬ 
tion, that Mr. Hamilton, by the active and admirable assistance 
of Morton, had, after a three months’ residence at Feroe, per¬ 
ceived that he might return to England much sooner than he 
had at first anticipated ; still he did not like to mention even the 
probability of such a thing to his family, till perfectly certain 
himself. Morton never ceased persuading him to name a pe¬ 
riod for his return, knowing the comfort it would be to his home; 
but Mr. Hamilton could not bear the idea of leaving his friend 
in his voluntary banishment so many months sooner than they 
had reckoned on. When, however, the letters came from Oak- 
wood, detailing Edward’s return, and the discoveries thence 
proceeding, his anxiety and, let it be owned, his extreme dis¬ 
pleasure against his nephew, prompted his return at once. 
Morton not only conquered every objection to his immediate 
departure, but tried, and in some measure succeeded, to soften 
his anger, by bringing before him many points in Mr. Howard’s 
letter, showing real, good, and true repentance in the offender, 
which a first perusal of a narrative of error had naturally over¬ 
looked. The seas, however, were so fearfully tempestuous and 
the winds so adverse, that it was impossible either to leave Fe- 
roe, or get a letter conveyed to Scotland, for a full fortnight 
after the Siren’s last voyage. Nothing but the extreme urgency 
of the case, increased by the fact that the detention of the Siren 
at Wick had given Mr. Hamilton a double packet of letters, but 
the second, though dated ten days later, gave the same hopeless 
account of Ellen, could have made him attempt a voyage home 
in such weather; yet he felt he could not rest, knowing intui¬ 
tively the misery his wife must be enduring, and scarcely able 
to bear even the thought of what seemed most probable, that 
Ellen would be taken from her, and the aggravated trial it 
would be. The voyage was a terrible one, for length and 


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heavy gales. More than once they wished to put into port, 
that Mr. Hamilton might continue his journey by land, but their 
only safety seemed keeping out at sea, the 3torm threatening 
to dash them on rock or shoal, whenever in sight of land. 

By the time they reached the Land’s End — they had come 
westward of England, instead of eastward, as they went — the 
vessel was in such a shattered and leaky condition, that Cap¬ 
tain Harvey felt and acknowledged, she could not weather out 
another storm. The calm that had followed the heavy gales, 
gave hope to all; even though the constant shiftings of the 
wind, which was now not more than what, in sailor’s parlance, 
is called a cat’s-paw, prevented their making as much way as 
they desired. At length they were within twenty miles of 
Dartmouth, and not a doubt of their safety disturbed them, un¬ 
til the darkening atmosphere, the sullen rise and suppressed 
roar of th£ billows, the wind sobbing and wailing at first, and 
then bursting into that awful gale, which we have before de¬ 
scribed,. banished every human hope at -once. The rudder 
snapped; every half-hour the water gained upon the hold, 
though every man worked the pumps. There was not a shred 
of canvas, but the masts, and yards, and stays bent and snapped 
like reeds before the blast. To guide her was impossible; she 
was driven on — on — till she struck on a reef of rock about a 
mile, or less, perhaps from Dartmouth. Then came their sig¬ 
nals of distress, as a last lone hope, for the crew of the Siren 
were all too good seamen to dare believe a boat could either be 
pushed off, or live in such a sea. Their wonder, their hope, 
their intense thankfulness, when it was discovered, may be 
imagined. The rest is known. 

“ And how did you get this disfiguring blow, my dear Ed¬ 
ward ? ” inquired his aunt, whose eyes, it seemed, would turn 
upon him, as if impossible to connect that slight figure with 
such immense exertions — though some time had passed, and 
a social, happy breakfast, round which all still lingered, had 
enabled them to subdue too painful emotion, and only to be 
conscious of the most deep and grateful, joy. 

“ Pray do not call it disfiguring, aunt; I am quite proud of 
it. Last night I could have dispensed with such a striking 
mark of affection from the poor Siren, though I really hardly 
felt it, except that the blood would trickle in my eye, and al¬ 
most blind me, when I wanted all my sight and senses too. 
But this morning Mr. Howard has made such a kind fuss about 
it, that I think it must be something grand.” 

“ But what did you hide yourself for, Ned ? ” demanded Em- 

30 


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meline, all her high spirits recalled. Her cousin hesitated, and 
a flush mounted to his forehead. 

“ It was fear, Emmeline ; absolute fear! ” 

“ Fear ! ” she repeated, laughing; “ of what ? of all the 
bogies and spirits of the winds and waves, whose wrath you 
dared, by venturing to oppose them ? Nonsense, Edward! 
you will never make me believe that.” 

“ Because you do not know me,” he answered, with startling 
earnestness. “ How Can your gentle nature understand the in¬ 
congruities of mine ? or loving your father as you do, and as he 
deserves, comprehend the dread, the belief in his unpitying 
sternness to youthful error, which I imbibed from my child¬ 
hood ? He held — he holds — my fate, forgiveness or expo¬ 
sure, and how could I meet him calmly ? Emmeline, Emme¬ 
line, if I had been but as morally brave as I may be physically, 
I should have had nothing to dread, nothing to hide. As it is, 
uncle Hamilton, judge, act, decide as you would if I had not 
been the undeserved means of saving you — it will be the best 
for me ; ” and, rising hurriedly, he left the room before any one 
could reply. 

“ But you will forgive him, papa; you will try him again ; 
and I am sure he will be morally brave, too,” pleaded Emme¬ 
line ; her sister and Miss Harcourt joining in the entreaty and 
belief, and Mrs. Hamilton looking in his face without uttering 
a word. Mr. Hamilton’s answer seemed to satisfy all parties. 

Ellen meanwhile had awoke, quite refreshed, and all pain 
gone, been dressed and conveyed to her daily quarters, the 
events of the morning entirely unknown to her ; for though the 
joyful news, spreading like wildfire through the house, had 
reached Mrs. Langford’s ears, and made her very happy, she 
had quite judgment enough, even without a message to that 
effect from her mistress, to keep it from Ellen till carefully pre¬ 
pared. 

“ What can I say to my little Ellen for deserting her so 
long ? ” inquired Mrs. Hamilton, playfully, as she entered her 
room, about twelve o’clock, after a long private conversation 
with her husband. 

“ I wish you would tell me you had been lying down, dear 
aunt; it would satisfy me better than any other reason.” 

“ Because you think it would do me the most good, dearest. 
But look at me, and tell me if you do not think I must have 
been trying some equally efficacious remedy.” Ellen did look, 
and so radiant was that kind face with happiness, that she was 
startled. 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


351 


“ What has happened, aunt Emmeline ? You have heard 
from my uncle,” she added, her voice trembling. “ What does 
he say ? — will he — ” 

“ He says, you must summon all your smiles to greet him, 
love; for he hopes to be with us very, very shortly, so you will 
not wonder at my joy ? ” 

Ellen tried to sympathize in it; but Mrs. Hamilton soon 
saw that her perhaps natural < dread of what should be her 
uncle’s judgment on her brother and herself, prevented all 
pleasurable anticipation of his arrival, and that the only effect¬ 
ual way of removing it was to let them meet as soon as possi¬ 
ble. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

FORGIVENESS. 

Three days after Mr. Hamilton’s arrival, a cheerful party 
assembled in his wife’s dressing-room, which, in its elegant ap¬ 
purtenances — signs as they were, of a most refined and beauti¬ 
ful taste — certainly deserved a higher appellation; but boudoir, 
Percy had always declared, did not harmonize at all with the 
old English comforts of Oakwood, and he would not have a 
French word to designate his mother’s room especially. Ellen 
was on her sofa, working; Edward, who she thought had only 
returned that morning, at her side, reading; Caroline and Em¬ 
meline, drawing, the one with some degree of perseverance, the 
other with none at all. It seemed as if she could not sit still, 
and her wild sallies, and snatches of old songs, repeatedly made 
Miss Harcourt look up from her book, and Mrs. Hamilton from 
her work, surprised. 

“ Emmeline, I cannot draw,” exclaimed Caroline, at length ; 
“ you are making the table as restless as yourself.” 

“ Why can you not say it was moved by an irresistible sym¬ 
pathy ? It is most extraordinary-that you will still speak plain 
matter-of-fact, when I am doing all I can to make you poetical.” 

“ But what am I to poetize on now, Emmeline ? — the table, 
or yourself? because, at present, they are the only subjects 
under consideration, and I really cannot see any thing very 
poetical in either.” 

44 Not even in me , Lina ? ” archly replied Emmeline, bending 



352 


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down so that her face should come before her sister, instead of 
her copy, which was a very pretty, small marble figure. “ Now, 
if you were not the most determined piece of prose in the world, 
you would find poetry even in my face. 

“For, lo! the artist no more gazed 
On features still and cold; 

He stood, bewilder’d and amazed, 

As living charms unfold. 

“As if touch’d by yon orient ray, 

The stone to life had warm’d; 

For round the lip such bright smiles play, 

As never sculptor form’d. 

There, Caroline, that is what you ought to have felt. If I can 
make poetry on my face — ” 

“ Poetry on yourself! Why, Emmeline, I thought you were 
repeating a verse of some old poet, with which I am unac¬ 
quainted. I really beg your pardon. I did not know your 
favorite Muse had dubbed you follower as well as worshipper.” 

“ Nor did I till this moment. She feared for her reputation 
near such a lover of prose as you are, and so touched me with 
inspiration. I am exceedingly obliged to her; but even if I 
failed to make you poetical, Caroline, you might have emulated 
Cowper, and instead of singing the ‘ Sofa/ sung the ‘Table.’ 
Indeed I think a very pretty poem might be made of it. Look 
at the variety of tasteful and useful things laid on a table — 
and there it stands in the midst of them, immovable, cold, in¬ 
sensible, just like one on whom we heap favors upon favors, 
and who remains so wrapped in self, as to be utterly indifferent 
to all. Now, Caroline, put that into rhyme, or blank verse, if 
you prefer it; it is a new idea, at least.” 

“ So new,” replied her sister, laughing, “ that I think I will 
send it to Percy, and request him to turn it into a Greek or 
Latin ode ; it will be so much grander than my English version. 
You have so astonished mamma, Emmeline, by your mad mood, 
that she has actually put down her work.” 

“ I am so glad ! ” replied Emmeline, springing to her mother’s 
side ; “ I like other people to be as idle as myself.” 

“ But there is a medium in all things, young lady,” answered 
her mother, lialf-gravely, half in Emmeline’s own tone ; “ and 
I rather think your conscience is telling you, that it is not 
quite right to desert one Muse for another, as you are doing 
now.” 

“ Oh, but my drawing must wait till her Muse inspires me 


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353 


again. Poetry does not always come, and her visits are so 
delightful! ” 

“ Then I am afraid you will think me very harsh, Emme¬ 
line ; but delightful as they are, I must not have them always 
encouraged. If you encourage the idea of only working when 
the fit of inspiration comes upon you — in plain words, only 
when you feel inclined — you will fritter life away without one 
solid thought or acquirement. You think now, perhaps, habit¬ 
uated as you are to employment, that this is impossible; but 
you are just of an age to demand very strict watchfulness over 
yourself to prevent it. Now that you are emerging from the 
, routine of childhood’s lessons, and too old to be compelled to do 
that which is right, and — rendering your task of control more 
difficult — more susceptible to poetry, and what you term in¬ 
spiration, than ever, you must try and infuse a little of Caro¬ 
line’s steady, matter-of-fact into your poetry, instead of almost 
despising it, as so cold and disagreeable. Now, do not look so 
very sad, and so very serious, love, and jump at the conclusion 
that I am displeased, because I speak seriously. I love your 
joyousness far too dearly to check it, or wish you to do so, es- 
'~pUffiaT!y in your own family ; but just as you have learned the 
necessity of, and evinced so well and so feelingly, control in 
emotions of sorrow, my Emmeline, so I am quite sure you will 
trust my experience, and practise control, even in the pleasant 
inspiration of poetry and joy.” 

Emmeline sat very quiet for several minutes, she was just in 
that mood of extreme hilarity which renders control excessively 
difficult, and causes the last check upon it to be felt as harsh 
and unkind, and almost to bring tears. She was not too perfect 
to escape from feeling all this, even though the person who had 
caused it was the mother she so dearly loved; but she did not 
give way to it. A few minutes’ hard struggle, and the mo¬ 
mentary temper was so conquered, that, with an even more 
than usually warm kiss, she promised to think quite seriously 
on all her mother said; and, an effort far more difficult, was 
just as joyous as before. 

“ I have made so many mistakes in my drawing, mamma, I 
really do not think I can go on with it to-day; do let me help 
you, I will take such pains with my work, it shall be almost as 
neat as yours; and then, though my fingers are employed, at 
least I may go on talking.” 

Mrs. Hamilton assented, telling her she might talk as much 
as she pleased, with one of those peculiar smiles of approval 
which ever made Emmeline’s heart throb, for they always told 
30 * 


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her, that the thoughts and feelings, and secret struggle with 
temper, which she imagined must be known only to herself, 
her mother by some mysterious power had discovered, and re¬ 
warded. 

“Edward what are you so deep in? — ‘Fragments of Voy¬ 
ages and Travels ’ — I thought it was something much deeper 
than that by the deep attention you are giving it. You should 
dip in oceans, not-in fragments of water, Ned.” 

“I did not feel inclined for the exertion,” lie replied, smiling. 

“Do you know,” she continued, “when I first read that book, 
which I did merely because I had a lurking sort of affection for 
a handsome cousin of mine who was a sailor, I was so charmed 
with the tricks you all/played in the cockpit, that I was seized 
with a violent desire to don a middy’s dress, and come after 
you; it would have made such a pretty story, too; but I did 
not think mamma and papa would quite approve of it, so I de¬ 
sisted. Should I not make a very handsome boy, Edward?” 

“So handsome,” he replied, again smiling, “that I fear you 
would not have preserved your incognita half an hour, espe¬ 
cially with those flowing curls.” 

“My dear Emmeline, do tell me, what has made you in this 
mood ? ” asked Ellen; “ last week you were so sad, and the last 
three days you have been — ” 

“Wild enough to frighten you, Ellen; ah, if you did but 
know the reason.” 

“You had better satisfy her curiosity, Emmy,” said Mrs. 
Hamilton, so meaningly, that Emmeline’s ready mind instantly 
understood her. “Tell her all that did occur in that awful 
storm three days ago, as poetically and lengthily as you like; 
no one shall interrupt you, if you will only be very careful not 
to exaggerate pr alarm.” 

Edward gave up his seat to his cousin, and Emmeline launch¬ 
ed at once into a most animated description of the storm and 
the shipwreck, and the rescue; cleverly contriving so to hide 
all names, as to elude the least suspicion of either the preserved 
or the preserver having any thing to do with herself, Ellen be¬ 
coming so exceedingly interested, as to lose sight of the ques¬ 
tion which at first had struck her, what this could have to do 
with Emmeline’s wild spirits. 

“ You do not mean to say it was his own father he saved?” 
she said, as her cousin paused a minute to take breath; “ your 
tale is becoming so like a romance, Emmy, I hardly know how 
to believe it.” 

“ I assure you it is quite true; only imagine what my young 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


355 


hero’s feelings must have been, and those of the family, to whom 
he gave back a husband and a father! ” 

“I should think them so intense, so sacred, as to be hardly 
joy at first, and scarcely possible to be imagined, even by your 
vivid fancy, Emmy.” 

“ I don’t know, Ellen, but I think I can imagine them; you 
may shake your head, and look wise, but I will prove that I 
can by-and-by. But what do you think of my hero ? ” 

“ That I should like to know him, and admire him quite as 
much as you can desire — and who told you all this ? ” 

“ One of the principal actors in the scene ? ” 

“ What, has your penchant for any thing out of the common 
way reached Dartmouth, and old Collins brought you the tale?” 

“No,” replied Emmeline, laughing; “guess again.” 

“William Grey?” 

“No.” 

“One of the rescued crew who may know my aunt?” 

“Wrong again, Ellen,” 

“ Then I cannot guess, Emmeline; so pray tell me.” 

“You are very silly, Ellen; were not Mr. Howard and Ed¬ 
ward both at Dartmouth at the time ? why did you not guess 
them? Not that I had it from either.” 

“ Edward! ” repeated Ellen, “ did he know any thing about 
it? ” 

“ More than any one else, dearest,” answered Mrs. Hamilton, 
cautiously, but fondly; “ put all Emmeline’s strange tale together, 
and connect it with my happiness the other morning, and I think 
your own heart will explain the rest.” 

“ More especially with this speaking witness,” continued Em¬ 
meline, playfully putting back Edward’s hair, that Ellen might 
see the scar. She understood it in a moment, and clasping her 
arms round her brother’s neck, as he knelt by her, tried hard to 
prevent emotion, but could not, and burst into tears. 

“ Tears, my little Ellen ; I said I would only be greeted with 
smiles,” exclaimed a rich, deep voice, close beside her, and be¬ 
fore she had time to fear his presence, she felt herself clasped 
with all a father’s fondness in her uncle’s arms ; her head rest¬ 
ing on his shoulder, and his warm kiss on her cheek. 

“ Edward! ” was the only word she could speak. 

“ Do not fear for him, my dear Ellen; true repentance and 
a firm resolution to amend are all I ask, and if his future con¬ 
duct really prove them, the errors of his youth shall be forgot¬ 
ten, as if they had never been.” 

“And — and —” 


356 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


“ I know all you would say, my dear child. I did think there 
could be no excuse, no palliation, for your sin; but even if I 
still wish the temptation had been resisted, you have indeed 
suffered for it, more than the harshest judgment could desire; 
let it be forgotten as entirely and as fully as it is forgiven.” 

In a very few minutes Ellen’s composure was so fully restored, 
and her heavy dread so subsided, that the relief seemed to her 
almost a dream. Could it be possible that it was the relative 
she had pictured as so harsh and stern, and pitiless to youthful 
error, who had drawn a chair close by her sofa, and caressingly 
holding her hand in his, and looking so kindly, so earnestly, in 
her altered face, was trying to amuse her by telling her so 
many entertaining things about Feroe and Mr. Morton, and 
his voyage home, and alluding to her brother’s courage, and 
prudence, and skill, in such terms as almost brought the tears 
again? Mr. Hamilton was inexpressibly shocked at the change 
which mental and bodily suffering had wrought in his niece. 
There is always something peculiarly touching, and appealing 
to the best emotions, in youthful sorrow or suffering of any 
kind; and her trial had been such an aggravated one — com¬ 
bining such agonized remorse, for an act, which the harshest 
judgment, knowing all points of the case, could scarcely pro¬ 
nounce as other than involuntary, with the most heroic, but 
perfectly unconscious self-sacrifice, and not only terror for her 
brother’s fate, but an almost crushing sense of misery for his 
faults, that the pallid face, and frame so delicately fragile, had 
still deeper claims for sympathy and cherishing than even when 
caused by ordinary illness. The loss of her unusually luxuriant 
hair, except the soft bands which shaded her face, visible under 
the pretty little lace cap, made her look much younger than she 
really was, and so delicately transparent had become her com¬ 
plexion, that the blue veins were clearly traceable on her fore¬ 
head, and throat, and hands; the dark, soft lash seemed longer 
than before, as it swept the pale cheek, the brow more pencilled, 
and the eye, whether in imagination, from her friends knowing 
all she had endured, or in reality, was so expressive of such 
deep, quiet feeling, that the whole countenance was so altered 
and so improved, that it seemed as if the heavy, sallow child 
was rapidly changing into one of those sweet, lovable, heart- 
attracting girls, who, without any actual beauty, can never be 
passed unnoticed. 

At Ellen’s request, Mrs. Hamilton had, as soon as she was 
strong enough, read with her, morning and evening, the devo¬ 
tional exercises which were read below to the assembled family. 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


357 


Mrs. Hamilton soon perceived, and with no little pain, that 
Ellen shrunk from the idea of being well enough to rejoin them, 
in actual suffering. Here again was an effect of that same 
vivid imagination, of whose existence, until the late events, in 
one so quiet, seemingly so cold, Mrs. Hamilton had not the 
least idea of. Ellen had been so long accustomed to be silent 
as to her feelings in fact carefully to conceal them, that much 
as she might wish and intend to be unreserved, her aunt feared 
it would cause her some difficulty to be so, and she could not 
hope to succeed in controlling imagination, unless she were. 
That night, however, Ellen’s unreserved confidence gave her 
hope. When the devotional exercises, in which she had joined 
with even more than usual earnestness and fervor, were con¬ 
cluded, she said, with almost Emmeline’s confidence, as she 
laid her hand on her aunt’s — 

“ I am so very, very happy to-night, dear aunt, that I am 
afraid I do not think enough of what is past. I did so dread 
my uncle’s return — so tremble at what his sentence would be 
on Edward and myself, that even your kindness would not re¬ 
move the weight; and now, that I have found it all so ground¬ 
less, and he is so kind — so indulgent, I am so relieved, that I 
fear I must have thought more of his anger than the anger of 
God. My sin remains the same in His sight, though you and 
uncle Hamilton have so fully forgiven it, and — and — I do not 
think I ought to feel so happy.” 

“ Indeed, my dear Ellen, I think you may. Our Heavenly 
Father is still more merciful than man, as Mr. Howard so 
clearly proved to you, in the long conversation you had with 
him. We know, by his Holy Word, that all he asks is sincere 
repentance for sin, and a firm conviction that in Him only we 
are made sufficiently righteous for our penitence to be accepted. 
I believe, Ellen, that His forgiveness was yours, long before I 
could give you mine, for He could read your heart, and saw 
the reason of your silence, and all the remorse and suffering, 
which, from the appearances, against you, I might not even 
guess; and that, in His compassionating love and pity, He per¬ 
mitted your increased trial; ordaining even the failure of the 
relief to Edward, to convince you, that, not even in such a 
fearful case as yours, might error, however involuntary, pros¬ 
per. I can trace His loving providence even in the fact of 
your finding one more note than you wanted, that discovery 
might thence come, which, without such a seeming chance, was, 
humanly speaking, impossible. He has shown compassion and 
love for you and Edward, in the very sufferings He ordained. 


358 


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So do not check your returning happiness, fearing it must be 
unacceptable to Him. Try to trace all things, either of joy or 
sorrow, to Him. Associate Him with your every thought, and 
believe me, my own Ellen, your very happiness will both draw 
you nearer to Him, and be an acceptable offering in his sight.” 

Ellen listened eagerly, gratefully; she felt as if, with every 
word Mrs. Hamilton said, the film of doubt and vague fancies 
was dissolving from her mind, and, after a short pause, she 
said — 

“ Then you do not think, aunt Emmeline, my inability to 
pray for so long a time, was a proof that God had utterly for¬ 
saken me ? It made me still more wretched, for I thought it 
was a sure sign that I was so irredeemably wicked, He had 
left me to the devices of my own heart, and would never love 
or have mercy on me again. Even after you had quite for¬ 
given me, and proved to me my promise was a mistaken one 
and not binding, I still felt the difficulty to pray, and it was so 
painful.” 

Such inability is very often so entirely physical, my dear 
Ellen, that we must not think too much about it. Our simple 
duty is to persevere, however little satisfactory our devotions ; 
and put our firm trust in our heavenly Father, that He will 
heal us, and permit His countenance so to shine upon us again, 
as to derive comfort from our prayers. Your inability before 
your illness was the natural consequence of Mr. Howard’s 
severe representations, which he has since assured me, he never 
would have used, if he could have had the least idea of the 
cause of your silence. You, my poor child, were suffering too 
much, from a complete chaos of conflicting feelings and duties, 
to be able to realize this, and I am not at all astonished, that 
when you most yearned for the comfort of prayer and trust, the 
thought that by your silence you were failing in your duty to 
me and so disobeying God, should utterly have prevented it. 
Since your severe illness the inability has been entirely physi¬ 
cal. As strength and peace return, you will regain the power, 
and realize all its comfort. Try, and under all feelings trust in 
and love God, and do not be too much elated, when you can 
think seriously and pray joyfully, nor too desponding when both 
fail you. In our present state, 'physical causes alone, so often 
occasion these differences of feeling in hours of devotion, that 
if we thought too much about them, we should constantly think 
wrong, and be very miserable. Try and prove your desire to 
love and serve God, in your daily conduct and secret thoughts , 
my Ellen, and you will be able to judge of your spiritual im- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 359 

provement by action and feeling , far more truly and justly than 
by the mood in which you pray.” 

The earnestness of truth and feeling was always so impressed 
on Mrs. Hamilton’s manner, whenever she addressed her youth¬ 
ful charge, that her simplest word had weight. Happy indeed 
is it when youth — that season of bewildering doubt and ques¬ 
tion, and vivid, often mistaken fancies, and too impetuous feel¬ 
ing— has the rich blessing of such affectionate counsels, such a 
friend. Why will not woman rise superior to the petty em¬ 
ployments and feelings too often alone - attributed to her, and 
endeavor to fit herself for such a thrice blessed mission; and 
by sympathy with young enjoyments — young hopes—young 
feelings, so attract young affections, that similar counsels, simi¬ 
lar experiences, may so help and guide, that the restless mind 
and eager heart quiesce into all the calm, deep, beautiful cha¬ 
racteristics, which so shine forth in the true English wife — the 
true English mother! 

A fortnight after Mr. Hamilton’s arrival, Ellen was well 
enough to go down stairs for part of the day, and even to read 
and write a little. She was so very anxious to recommence her 
studies, which for many months had been so painfully neglected, 
that it was a great trial to her, to find her head was not yet 
strong enough for the necessary application. There were 
many, very many privations and trials, attendant on convales¬ 
cence after so severe an illness, known only to Ellen’s own 
heart, and to her aunt’s quick sympathy; and she very quickly 
learned in them the meaning of Mrs. Hamilton’s words regard¬ 
ing religion in conduct and feeling, as well as in prayer. She 
tried never to murmur, or dwell on the wish for pleasures which 
were denied her, but to think only on the many blessings which 
surrounded her. It was not an easy task so to conquer natural 
feeling, especially as the trial and its conquest was often known 
only to herself; but the earnest wish, indeed, to become holy 
in daily conduct, as well as in daily prayer, never left her mind, 
and so enabled her at length fully to obtain it. 

If Mrs. Hamilton had wanted evidence of her husband’s pub¬ 
lic as well as domestic worth, she would have had it fully now. 
His danger and his preservation once known, letters of regard 
and congratulation poured upon him, and Montrose Grahame 
made a journey down to Oakwood expressly to welcome back, 
and express his individual gratitude for his friend’s safety to 
his youthful preserver. But Edward so shrunk from praise or 
admiration, that his uncle, rejoicing at the feeling, would not 
press him, as he had first intended, to accompany him to Ox- 


360 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


ford, where he went to see his sons. Percy rated him soundly 
in a letter for not coming. Herbert seemed, as if he could 
only think of his father’s danger, and thank God for his safety, 
and for permitting Edward to be the means. So great was the 
desire of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton to re-assemble all their happy 
family once more, before Edward left them, that the young men 
made an exception to their general rule, and promised to spend 
Easter week at home. It was early in March, and anticipated 
by the home party with the greatest delight. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE RICH AND THE POOR. 

“We have had such a delightful excursion, mamma. Ellen, 
how I do wish you could have been with us! ” joyously ex¬ 
claimed Emmeline, as she ran into the usual sitting-room, one 
of those lovely afternoons, that the first days of March so often 
bring, promising spring long before she really comes. “ It is 
such a picturesque cottage, and Dame Collins, and Susan, and 
a host of little ones, look so nice, and so clean, and so pretty, 
and happy; it does one’s heart good to look at them.” 

“Are you sure you cannot find another adjective to apply to 
them, Emmy ? You have heaped so many together, that it is 
a pity you cannot find a few more.” 

“ But they really do look so comfortable, and are so grateful 
for all you and papa have done for them: Emmeline’s descrip¬ 
tion for once, is not too flowing,” rejoined the quieter Caroline, 
who had followed her sister into the room. 

“And were they pleased with your visit? ” asked Ellen. 

“ Oh, delighted! particularly at our making their pretty little 
parlor our dining-room, and remaining so long with them, that 
they could show us all their comforts and conveniences, with¬ 
out any bustle.” 

“ Mrs. Collins is really a sensible woman. Do you not think 
so, mamma?” inquired Caroline. 

“Yes, my dear. She has brought up her own large family 
and her poor orphan grandchildren so Admirably, in the midst 
of their extreme poverty, and bears such a name for kindness 
among her still poorer neighbors, that I truly respect and ad- 



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mire her. She is quite one of those in whom I have often told 
you some of the very loftiest virtues are to be found; and yet 
to see her, as she trudges about in her homely, humble fashion, 
never dfeaming she is doing or has done any thing remarkable 
in her hard-working life, who would suspect it ? ” 

“Only look, Ellen, how beautifully our collection will be 
increased,” continued Emmeline, w T ho just at that moment was 
only alive to pleasure, not to contemplation, even of goodness, 
in which she much delighted, and pouring into her cousin’s lap 
a basket of beautiful shells and other marine treasures. “ Papa 
has just given us a new cabinet in time, though he only thought 
of it as a place for his Faroe curiosities. To think of his 
remembering our tastes even there! ” 

“ But where did you get these from? ” 

“ Why, the children were playing with some, which were so 
perfect, I could not help admiring them, and Mrs. Collins was 
in a bustle of pleasure that I liked any thing so trifling, because 
she could gratify me, and she made me take all these, adding, 
that her good man would be sure to look out for some more for 
us; for when I told her they not only pleased me, but my poor 
invalid cousin, who was Edward’s sister, you should have seen 
how her eyes sparkled.” 

“ Oh, you have quite won the dame’s heart, Emmy! ” said 
Miss Harcourt. “ What with talking to her, and to Susan, and 
playing with every one of the children, and making them tell 
you all their plays and their schooling, and then gathering you 
a nosegay, telling them it should adorn your room at home! ” 
“And so it shall,” gayly interrupted Emmeline; “ I desired 
Robert to put them in water directly, for they were very pretty, 
and I like them better than the best bouquet from our green¬ 
house.” 

“ I do not quite agree with you, Emmeline,” said Caroline, 
smiling. 

“ Not you, Lina, who ever thought you would ? by-the-by, I 
never saw you so agreeable and natural in a poor man’s cottage 
in my life. What were you saying to Dame Collins ? ” actually 
holding her hand, and something very bright shining in your 
eye.” 

“ Dear Emmy, do not run on so,” whispered Ellen, as she 
noticed Caroline’s cheek crimson. Emmeline was at her side 
in a moment, with an arm round her neck. 

“ Caroline, dear, forgive me. I did not mean to tease you; 
only it was unusual, was it not ? ” 

“ I was trying to tell Mrs. Collins all I thought of her hus- 
31 


362 


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band’s share in saving our dear father, Emmy. I forgot all o* 
folly and pride then.” 

“ You are very seldom proud now, dearest Lina, and I wa» 
the foolish one not to have guessed what you were saying, with 
out tormenting you. Mamma, do you know I have such an 
admirable plan in my head ? ” 

“ First tell mamma,” interrupted Caroline, “ that William 
Grey has chosen to be a partner with Collins in the more 
extended fishing and boating business, which papa has secured 
them, instead of entering into business by himself; this has 
been settled since you were there, I think.” 

“ Yes, my dear, I did not know it; but Mrs. Collins must 
like it, for she regretted very much that her sons were all scat¬ 
tered in different trades, and her little grandson, whose taste 
pointed to the sea, was not old enough to go out with his grand¬ 
father.” 

“ But only listen to my plan, mamma, dear! William Grey 
and Susan Collins cannot possibly see much of each other, 
without falling in love; and they will make such an industrious, 
pretty couple, and papa will give them a cottage to themselves, 
and I will go to their wedding! ” 

“Just such a plan as I should expect from your giddy brain, 
Emmy. But how do you know that Grey has any desire for 
a wife?” 

“Oh, because Edward said he could not help remarking, 
even in the midst of that awful scene, how mournfully he said 
he would bear a hand, for he had neither mother, sister, nor 
wife to pipe for him; now, if he married Susan, he would have 
a very pretty wife to lament him.” 

“ Poor Susan, I fancy she would rather not become his wife, 
if it be only to mourn for him, Emmy; rather a novel reason 
for a marriage, certainly.” 

“ Oh, but mamma, dear! you know that I don’t mean exactly 
and only that; somebody to be interested for, and love him. 
No one can be happy without that.” 

“ Susan was telling me, mamma, how thankful she is to you, 
for finding her and her sister employment, that they might be 
able to help the family,” rejoined Caroline. “I was quite 
pleased with her manner of speaking, and she blushed so pret¬ 
tily when Miss Harcourt praised the extreme neatness of her 
work.” 

“Ali, mamma, if you could but hear all they say of you! ” 
again burst forth Emmeline, who it seemed could not be quiet, 
going from one subject to another with the same eager zest; 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


363 


“ if you had but heard the old dame tell her astonishment and 
her pride, when she saw you enter their former miserable hut, 
and sitting down on an old sea-chest, invite her to tell, and 
listened to all her troubles, just as if you had been her equal, 
and left such comfort and such hope behind you, as had not 
been theirs for many a long day. She actually cried when she 
spoke, and so did I, because she spoke so of my mother. Oh, 
mother, darling, how proud your children ought to be, to belong 
to one so beloved, so revered by the poor, and the rich too, as 
you are ! ” 

“ Flatterer ! ” playfully answered Mrs. Hamilton, laying her 
hand caressingly on her child’s mouth, as she knelt in sport 
before her. “ I will not hear such praise, even from you. Be¬ 
lieve me, darling, to win love and respect is so easy, so delight¬ 
ful, that there is no merit in obtaining it. We ought only to be 
thankful, when granted such a station and such influence as 
will permit extended usefulness and thought for others, without 
wronging our own.” 

<k Yes; but, mamma, many people do a great deal of good, 
but somehow or other they are not beloved.” 

“ Because, perhaps, in their earnest desire to accomplish a 
great deal of good, they may not think quite enough of little 
things, and of the quick sympathy with other persons’ feelings, 
which is the real secret of winning love, and without which, 
sometimes even, the greatest benefit is not valued as it ought to 
be. But did you see old Collins himself? ” 

“ He came in just before we left, and was so delighted to see 
papa sitting in his ingle-nook, and only wished Edward had 
been there too.” 

“ And where is your father ? ” asked Mrs. Hamilton. Did 
lie not return with you ?” 

“ Yes, but Edward wanted him, and they are in the library. 
I am quite certain there is some conspiracy between them; 
these long private interviews bode no good. I shall scold papa 
for being so mysterious,” said Emmeline. 

“ I rather think he will return the benefit, by scolding you 
for being so curious, Emmy. But here is Edward, so the inter¬ 
view to-day has not been very long.” 

“ Has papa been telling you old Collins’s naval news, Ned ? ” 
And, without waiting for an answer, she continued, “ that there 
is a fine seventy-four, the Sea Queen, preparing at Plymouth, 
to take the place of your old ship, and send back Sir Edward 
Manly and the Prince William. Now do not tell me you know 
this, Edward, and so disappoint me of the rare pleasure of tell 
ing news.” 


364 


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“ I am sorry, Emmy, but I have known it for some weeks.” 

“ And why did you not tell us ? ” 

“ Because I did not think it would particularly interest you, 
until I could add other intelligence to it.” He stopped, and 
looked alternately at Mrs. Hamilton and Ellen, as if asking the 
former whether he might proceed. 

“And can you do so now, my dear Edward?” she replied, 
understanding him at once. “ Ellen is too anxious for your 
advancement to expect, or wish you always to remain with her. 
Have you your appointment ? ” 

“ Yes, aunt. My uncle’s letter to the admiralty brought an 
answer at last. It came while he was out, and has been tanta¬ 
lizing me on the library-table for four hours. But it is all right. 
As the Prince William is returning, and I am so anxious to be 
still in active service, I am permitted, though somewhat against 
rule, to have a berth in the Sea Queen. I am sure it is all 
uncle Hamilton’s representations, and I am so thankful, so 
glad! ” 

“ To leave us all, again, you unfeeling savage ! ” exclaimed 
Emmeline, trying to laugh off the universal regret at this an¬ 
nouncement. Ellen had looked earnestly at her brother all the 
time he spoke, and then turned her face away, and a few quiet 
tears trickled down her cheek. Edward’s arm was very quickly 
round her, and he whispered so many fond words and earnest 
assurances, united with his conviction that it would still be a 
whole month, perhaps more, before he should be summoned, as 
he had leave to remain with his family till the Sea Queen was 
ready to sail, that she rallied her spirits, and, after remaining 
very quiet for an hour, which was always her custom when she 
had had any struggle with herself, for the frame felt it — though 
neither word nor sign betrayed it — she was enabled fully to 
enjoy the grand delight of the evening — Percy’s and Herbert’s 
arrival. 

Easter week was indeed one of family joy and thankfulness, 
not only that they were all permitted once more to be together, 
but that the heavy clouds of sin and suffering had rolled away 
from their roof, and pleasure of the sweetest and most enduring 
because most domestic kind, reigned triumphant. Percy’s as¬ 
tonishment at Edward’s growth, and the alteration from the 
handsome, joyous, rosy boy, to the pale, almost care-worn look¬ 
ing youth (for as long as Ellen bore such vivid traces of all she 
had endured for hjs sake, and was, as it were, the constant 
presence of his errors, Edward tried in vain to recover his 
former spirits,) w r as most amusing. 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


365 


“You are all deceived,” he would declare; “one of these 
days you will discover you have been receiving a spurious Ed¬ 
ward Fortescue, and that he is as much a pretender as his 
namesake, Charles Edward.” 

“ Then he is no pretender, Percy. He is as truly the son of 
Colonel Fortescue, as Prince Charles was the grandson of 
James. Now don’t begin a civil contest directly you come 
home; you know you and I never do agree on historical sub¬ 
jects, and we never shall; you hate Mary the great, great, 
great grandmother of Prince Charles, and I love her, so we 
must be always at war.” 

“Stuart-mad, as usual, Tiny! but if that really be Edward, 
I wish he would'just look a boy again, I don’t like the change at 
all; poor fellow! ” he added, to himself, “ it is not much wonder.” 

The days passed much too quicldy. Emmeline wished a 
dozen times that the days would be twenty-four, instead of 
twelve hours long. The weather was so genial that it added 
to enjoyment, and allowed Ellen the delight, known only to 
such prisoners to sickness as she had been, of driving out for 
an hour or two at a time, and taking gentle walks on the ter¬ 
race, and in the garden. The young men were to return on the 
Monday, and on the Saturday previous a little excursion had 
been planned, to which the only drawback was that Ellen was 
not quite strong enough to accompany them: it was to visit 
Alice Seaton, whom we mentioned in a former chapter. Mr. 
Hamilton had succeeded in finding her brother a lucrative em¬ 
ployment with a lawyer in one of the neighboring towns, a few 
miles from where she and her aunt now lived, enabling young 
Seaton to spend every Sabbath with them; and Alice now kept 
a girls’ school on her own account, and conducted herself so 
well as never to want scholars. It had been a long promise to 
go and see her, the drive froin Oakwood being also most beau¬ 
tiful; and as she and her brother were both at home and at 
leisure the last day in Easter, it had been fixed upon for the 
visit. Percy was revelling in the idea of driving his mother 
and Miss Harcourt in a new barouche, and the rest of the party 
were to go on horse-back. But a dispute had arisen who should 
stay with Ellen, and Edward insisted upon it, it was his right; 
and so they thought it was agreed. 

“I wish, dear Percy you would prevail on Edward to accom¬ 
pany you,” pleaded Ellen, fancying herself alone with him, not 
seeing Herbert, who was reading at a distant table. 

“ I wish, dear Ellen, you were going with us,” he answered, 
mimicking her tone. 

31 * 


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“But as I cannot, make him go. It always makes him more 
unhappy when I am prevented any pleasure, than it does my¬ 
self ; and I cannot bear to keep him by me four or five hours, 
when this lovely day, and the exercise of riding, and, above all, 
your company, Percy, would make him, at least for the time, 
almost his own merry self, again.” 

“ Thanks for the implied compliment, cousin mine,” replied 
Percy, with a low bow. 

“ Reward me for it, and make him go.” 

“How can I be so ungallant, as to make him leave you 
alone ? ” 

“ Oh, I do not mind it, I assure you! ” I am well enough to 
amuse myself now; I cannot bear you all giving up so many 
pleasures as you have done for me; I am so afraid of getting 
selfish.” 

“ You selfish, Ellen ? I wish you were a little more so; you 
are the most patient, devoted little creature that ever took 
woman’s form. You have made me reproach myself enough, I 
can tell you, and I owe you a grudge for doing so.” 

“ Dear Percy, what can you mean ? If you knew how hard 
I find it to be patient, sometimes, you would not praise me/ 

“I mean that the last time I was at home, I was blind and 
cruel, and added to your sufferings by my uncalled-for harsh¬ 
ness, and never had an opportunity till this moment, to say how 
grieved I was — when the truth was known.” 

“ Pray do not say any thing about it, dear Percy,” entreated 
his cousin, the tears starting to her eyes, as he kissed her 
warmly; it was only just and natural that you should have felt 
indignant with me, for causing aunt Emmeline so much misery, 
and alloying all the enjoyment of your holidays. I am sure you 
need not reproach yourself; but will you make Edward go?” 

“ If it really will oblige you, Ellen; but I do not half like it.” 
And he was going very reluctantly, when he met Herbert. 

“You need not go, Percy,” he said smiling; “my ungra¬ 
cious cousin would not depute me as her messenger, but I made 
myself such, and so successfully that Edward will go, Ellen.” 

“ Dear Herbert, how can I thank you enough! he will be so 
much happier with you all.” 

“Not with me,” said Herbert, archly, “for I remain in his 
place.” 

“You!” repeated Ellen, surprised; “indeed, dear Herbert, 
it must not be. I shall do very well alone.” 

“ Ungracious still, Ellen! what if I have been looking all the 
morning for some excuse to stay at home, without owning to 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


367 


my mother the truth — that I do not feel to-day quite equal to 
riding? If your looks were as ungracious as your words, I 
would run away from you into my own room; but as they are 
rather more gratifying to my self-love, we will send them all 
away, and enjoy our own quiet pleasures and your little drive 
together, Nell.” 

Whatever Ellen might have said to convince him she could 
be happy alone, the beaming look of pleasure on her counte¬ 
nance, satisfied all parties as to the excellence of this arrange¬ 
ment ; and happy, indeed, the day was. Herbert seemed to 
understand her unexpressed feelings so fully; and that always 
makes the charm of conversation, whatever its subject. We do 
not require the expression in words of sympathy — it is an in¬ 
describable something that betrays its existence. Favorite au¬ 
thors — and Herbert was almost surprised at Ellen’s dawning 
taste and judgment in literature — the delights of nature after 
a long confinement, as if every flower were more sweet, every 
bit of landscape, or wood, or water more beautiful, and the 
many holy thoughts and pure joys springing from such feelings, 
were all discussed, either cosily in their sitting-room, or in their 
ramble in the garden; and after Ellen’s early dinner, which 
Herbert shared with her as lunch, she proposed, what she 
knew he woidd like, that her drive should be to Greville Manor, 
and they might spend a full hour with their friends, and yet be 
back in time. Herbert assented gladly; and the warm wel¬ 
come they received, Mrs. Greville’s kind care of Ellen, and 
Mary’s eager chat with her and Herbert, and the number of 
things they seemed to find to talk about, made the hour literally 
fly; but Herbert, enjoyable as it was, did not forget his charge, 
and drove her back to Oak wood Avhile the sun still shone bri ght 
and warmly: and when the party returned, which they did only 
just in time to dress for dinner, and in the wildest spirits, the 
balance of pleasure at home and abroad, would certainly have 
been found quite equal. 

Ellen still continued quietly to lie down in her own room 
while the family were at dinner, for she was thea sufficiently 
refreshed to join them for a few hours in the evening. Percy 
and Emmeline, at dinner that day, kept up such a fire of wit 
and mirth, that it was somewhat difficult for any one else to 
edge in a word, though Edward and Caroline did sometimes 
contrive to bring a whole battery against themselves. Just as 
the dessert was placed oh the table, however, sounds of rural 
music in the distance, advancing nearer and nearer, caused 
Percy to pause in his wild sallies, and spring with Edward to 


3G8 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


the window, and their exclamations soon compelled all the 
party to follow their example, and send for Ellen to see the un¬ 
expected sight too. Banners and pennons floated in the sun¬ 
shine, and the greater part of the nautical inhabitants of Dart¬ 
mouth were marshalled in goodly array beside them, headed by 
Captain Harvey and his crew, with Collins in the midst of 
them; they were all attired in the new clothing which Mr. Ha¬ 
milton had presented to them; and a fine picture Percy declar¬ 
ed old Collins’s head would make, with his weather-beaten, 
honest-speaking face, the very peculiar curls in which his really 
yellow hair was twisted, and the quid of tobacco, from which, 
even on this grand occasion, he could not relieve his mouth and 
cheek. A band of young men and girls surrounded the first 
banner, which, adorned with large bunches of primroses and 
violets up the staff, bore the words, “ Hamilton and benevo¬ 
lence ; ” and among them Emmeline speedly recognized William 
Grey and Susan Collins, walking side by side, she looking down 
and smiling, and he so earnestly talking, that she whispered to 
her mother with the greatest glee, that her plan would take 
place after all. Then came a band of sturdy fishermen, chums 
and messmates of Collins, and then a band of boys and girls, 
from all Mr. Hamilton’s own village schools, decked in their 
holiday attire, and holding in their hands tasteful garlands of all 
the spring flowers they could muster, and bearing two large 
banners, one with the words, “Fortescue forever! All hail to 
British sailors! ” and the other a representation of the scene 
on the beach that eventful night, and the sinking vessel in the 
distance. The workmanship was rude indeed, but the effect so 
strikingly descriptive, that Mrs. Hamilton actually shuddered 
as she gazed, and grasped, almost unconsciously, the arm of her 
nephew as he stood by her, as if the magnitude of the danger, 
both to him and her husband, had never seemed so vivid before. 

The windows of the dining-room had been thrown widely 
open, and as the rustic procession came in sight of those to 
whom their whole hearts tendered homage, they halted; the 
music ceased, and cheer on cheer resounded, till the very 
echoes of the old park were startled out of their sleep, and 
sent the shout back again. Percy was among them in a mo¬ 
ment, singling out old Collins, whom he had tried repeatedly 
to see since his visit home, but never found him, and grasped 
and shook both his hands with the full vehemence of his cha¬ 
racter, pouring out the first words that chose to come, which 
better expressed his grateful feelings to the old man than the 
most studied speech. William Grey had already received sub- 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


869 


stantial proofs of his gratitude, and so he had then only a kind 
nod, and a joke and look at the pretty, blushing Susan, which 
said a vast deal to both, and seemed as if he quite seconded 
Emmeline’s plan. Mingling joyously with all, he had bluff 
words, after their own hearts, for the men, smiles for the maid¬ 
ens, and such wild jokes for the children, as lost them all de¬ 
corum, and made them shout aloud in their glee. Herbert se¬ 
conded him quite as well as his quieter nature would allow. 
Edward had hung back, even when his name was called out 
lustily, as if he could not bear such homage. 

“ Join them, my boy ; their humble pleasure will not be half 
complete without you,” whispered Mrs. Hamilton, earnestly, for 
she guessed his thoughts. “ Remember only at this moment 
the large amount of happiness you have been permitted to call 
forth. Do not underrate a deed which all must admire, because 
of some sad thoughts; rather resolve — as you can and have 
resolved — that the alloy shall be burned away, and the true 
metal alone remain, for my sake, to whom you have given such 
happiness, dear Edward.” 

The cloud dispersed from brow and heart in a moment; and 
he was in the midst of them, glad and buoyant almost as Percy, 
while the cheer which greeted him was almost overpowering to 
his sister, so much humble, yet earnest feeling did it speak. 

“ You really should have given us timely notice of your in¬ 
tentions, my good friend,” said Mr. Hamilton, warmly grasping 
Captain Harvey’s hand. “At least we might have provided 
some substantial refreshment after your long march, as I fear we 
have but slender fare to offer you, though Ellis and Morris are 
busy already, I am happy to see.” 

And urged on by their own delight at this homage both to 
their master and his young preserver, who had become a com¬ 
plete idol among them, a long table was speedily laid in the 
servants’ hall, covered with a variety of cold meats, and bread 
and cheese in abundance, and horns of cider sparkling brightly 
beside each trencher. Fruit and cakes eagerly sought for by 
Emmeline, were by her distributed largely to the children, who 
remained variously grouped on the lawn, their glee at the treat 
heightened by the sweet and gentle manner of its bestowal. 

Captain Harvey and his mate, Mr. Hamilton entertained 
himself, introducing them to his family, and especially Ellen, 
who, as the sister of Edward, found herself regarded with an 
interest that surprised her. Percy brought in old Collins and 
Grey, both of whom had expressed such a wish to see any one 
so nearly belonging to the brave young sailor; and her manner 


370 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


of receiving and returning their greeting, thanking them for the 
help they had so efficiently given her brother, made them still 
prouder and happier than before. After an hour and a half 
of thorough enjoyment — for their humble homage to worth 
and goodness had been received in the same spirit as it had 
been tendered — the procession marshalled itself in the same 
order as it had come ; and rude as the music was, it sounded, 
as Emmeline declared, really beautiful, becoming fainter and 
fainter in the distance, and quite picturesque the effect of the 
banners and pennons, as they gleamed in and out the woody 
windings of the park, both music and procession softened in the 
mild, lovely twilight of the season. 


CHAPTER XY. 

A HOME SCENE, AND A PARTING. 

“ Caroline ! Emmeline ! come to the music-room, for pity’s 
sake, and give me some delicious harmony,” exclaimed Percy, 
as soon as lights came, and the excitement of the last two hours 
had a little subsided. “ Sit quiet — unless I have some amuse¬ 
ment for my ears — I neither can nor will. I will have some 
music to lull my tired senses, and a waltz to excite my wearied 
frame.” 

“And rest your limbs,” said Edward, dryly. 

“ Don’t you know, master sailor, that when fatigued with one 
kind of exercise, the best rest is to take another ? Now I have 
been standing up, playing the agreeable, for two mortal hours, 
and I mean to have a waltz to bring back the stagnant circula¬ 
tion, and to be pleased for the fatigue of pleasing. Caroline 
and Emmeline, away with you both. Ellen, love, I will only 
ask you to come with us, and be pleased, too. Be off, Edward, 
no one shall be my cousin’s cavalier but myself; Herbert has 
had her all day. Take my mother, if you like. Father, escort 
Miss Harcourt. That’s all right, as it always is, when I have 
my own way! ” 

His own way, this time, gave universal satisfaction. The ta¬ 
lents of his sisters had been so cultivated, as a means of en¬ 
hancing home-happiness, and increasing their own resources, 
that their musical evenings were always perfect enjoyment- 



HOME INFLUENCE. 


371 


Caroline, indeed, improved as she was, still retained her love 
of admiration sufficiently, to find still greater enjoyment in 
playing and singing when there were more to listen to her, 
than merely her own family, but the feeling, in the security and 
pure atmosphere of Oakwood, was kept under control, and she 
could find real pleasure in gratifying her brothers, though not 
quite to the same extent as Emmeline. 

Percy, after comfortably settling Ellen, threw himself on the 
most luxurious chair that he could find, stretched out his legs, 
placed his head in what he called the best position for listening 
and enjoying, and then called for duets on the harp and piano, 
single pieces on both, and song after song, with the most merci¬ 
less rapidity. 

“ Your sisters shall neither play nor sing to you any more,” 
his mother, at length, laughingly, said, “ unless you rouse your¬ 
self from this disgracefully idle fit, and take your flute, and 
join them.” 

“ Mother, you are lost to every sensation of mercy ! after all 
my exertions, where am I to find breath ? ” 

“ You have had plenty of time to rest, you lazy fellow ; let¬ 
ting your sisters fatigue themselves, without remorse, and refus¬ 
ing your share,” expostulated Edward. “ Caroline, Emmeline, 
take my advice, and strike! don’t play another note.” 

“ You young rebel! teaching my sisters to revolt against the 
authority of such an important person as myself. However, I 
will be condescending for once; Tiny, there’s a love, fetch me 
my flute.” 

It was so very close to him as he approached the piano, that 
his sister comically took his hand, and placed it on it, and two 
or three very pretty trios were performed, Percy declared with 
professional eclat. 

“ Now don’t go, Percy, we want your voice in a song. Em¬ 
my, sing that pretty one to your harp, that we wish papa so 
much to hear; Percy and I will join, when wanted.” 

“ Caroline, I have not the genius to sing at sight.” 

“ Oh, you have often! and the words will inspire you. 
Come, Herbert, we want you, too; Edward’s singing voice has 
deserted him, or I should enlist him also. Emmeline, what are 
you waiting for ? ” 

“ I cannot sing it, dear Caroline ; do not ask me,” answered 
Emmeline, with a confusion and timidity, which, at home, were 
perfectly incomprehensible. 

“ Why, my little Emmy, I am quite curious to hear this new 
song ; do not disappoint me ! ” said her father, encouragingly. 


372 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


“ But after Caroline I cannot sing worth hearing,” still 
pleaded Emmeline. 

“ My dear child, I never heard you make such a foolish ex¬ 
cuse before; your mother and myself* never find any difference 
in the pleasure that listening to your music bestows, however 
one performer may be more naturally gifted than the other.” 

“ I declare I must sing it if it be only for • the mystery of 
Tiny’s refusing,” said Percy, laughing. “ Come, Bertie — a 
ms. too — what a trial for one’s nerves.” 

The words, however, seemed sufficiently satisfactory for them 
readily to join in it. Emmeline still hesitated, almost painfully; 
but then gathering courage, she sat down to her harp, and, 
without any notes before her, played a few bars of one of those 
sweet, thrilling Irish melodies, so suited to her instrument, and 
then commenced her song, the sweetness of her voice, and 
clearness of articulation atoning well for her deficiency in the 
power and brilliancy which characterized her sister. The words 
were exceedingly simple, but sung with deep feeling, and heart- 
appealing as they were, from the subject* we hope our readers 
will judge them as leniently as Emmeline’s hearers. 

EMMELINE’S SONG. 

“ Joy! joy! No more shall sorrow cloud 
The home by Love enshrined: 

The hearts in Care’s cold fetters bow’d, 

Now loveliest flowers have twined; 

And dove-eyed Peace, with brooding wing, 

Hath made her dwelling here; 

And Hope and Love sweet incense fling, 

To welcome and endear. 

“ He has return’d! —and starless night 
No longer o’er us lowers. 

Joy! joy ! The future is all bright 
With rosy-blossom’d hours. 

What gladness with our Father fled! 

What gladness he’ll restore! 

He has return’d, through perils dread, 

To bless his own once more! 

“Joy! joy! Oh let our voices raise 
Their glad and grateful lay, 

And pour forth thanksgiving and praise 
That grief hath passed away! 

That he was snatch’d from storm and wave 
To dry pale Sorrow’s tear; 

[Restored! his home from woe to save — 

Oh! welcome, Father dear! ” 

Emmeline’s voice had at first trembled audibly, but seeming 


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to derive courage from her sister and brother’s accompaniment, 
which, from their knowledge of music, was so beautifully mo¬ 
dulated as to permit her sweet voice to be heard above all, and 
every word clearly distinguished, it became firmer and more 
earnest as she continued, till she forgot every thing but the sub¬ 
ject of her song. For full a minute there was silence as she 
ceased, but with an irresistible impulse Mr. Hamilton rose from 
his seat, and, as Emmeline left her harp, he clasped her in his 
arms. 

“ How can I thank you, my Emmeline, and all my children, 
for this fond greeting?” he exclaimed, with more emotion than 
he generally permitted to be visible. “Where could you find 
such appropriate words ? What! tears, my little girl,” he added, 
as, completely overcome by the excitement of her song and her 
father’s praise, Emmeline most unexpectedly burst into tears. 
“ What business have they to come when you have given your 
parents nothing but pleasure ? Drive them away, love; what! 
still no smile? We must appeal to mamma’s influence, then, 
to explain and soothe them.” 

“ Where did you get them, Tiny ? explain, for I am positively 
faint from curiosity,” comically demanded Percy, as Emmeline, 
breaking from her father, sat down on her favorite stool at her 
mother’s feet, and hid her face in her lap. Mrs. Hamilton laid 
her hand caressingly on those soft curls, but though she smiled, 
she did not speak. 

“ She will not tell, and you will none of you guess,” said 
Caroline, laughing. 

“You are in the secret, so out with it,” said Edward. 

“ Not I; I am pledged to silence.” 

“ Mother, dear, tell us for pity,” pleaded Herbert. 

“I can only guess, for I am not in her confidence, I assure 
you,” she replied, in the same playful tone, and raising Emme¬ 
line’s lowered head, she looked a moment in those conscious 
eyes. “Dictated by my Emmeline’s affectionate little heart, 
they were found in this pretty shape, in the recesses of her own 
fanciful brain — is not that it, dearest?” 

« There, Emmy, I knew mamma would find it out, however 
we might be silent,” said Caroline, triumphantly, as her sister s 
face was again concealed. 

“ Emmeline turned poet! Angels and ministers of grace de¬ 
fend me! I must hide my diminished head!” spouted Percy. 
“ I thought at least I might retain my crown as the poet of the 
family, and to be rivalled by you — a light-footed fawn — wild 
gazelle — airy sprite — my especial Tiny! it is unbearable! ” 


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“ But we must all thank you, notwithstanding, Emmy,” con¬ 
tinued Herbert. 

“Ah, but I have very little to do with it; the arrangement, 
of the words to the air, and the accompaniment, are Caroline’s; 
I could not have done that,” said Emmeline; her tears changed 
to her most joyous smiles. 

Percy and his father turned directly to Caroline, the former 
with a Sir Charles Grandison’s bow, the other with a most affec¬ 
tionate kiss ; and her mother looked at her with such an expres¬ 
sion of gratified pleasure, that she could not help acknowledging 
to herself, such pure enjoyment was not to be found in the 
praise and admiration of strangers. 

“Now, Emmeline, you have still a mystery to explain,” said 
Edward. “ Why did you not own your offspring, instead of, 
by silence, almost denying them ? ” 

“And here I really cannot help you,” answered Mrs. Ham¬ 
ilton ; “ I cannot imagine why my Emmy should conceal a fact 
that could only give pleasure to us all.” 

“ I think I know,” said Ellen, timidly; “ Emmeline was think¬ 
ing of all you said about controlling an impulse, and not always 
encouraging that which she termed inspiration, and perhaps she 
thought you did not quite approve of her writing, and so wished 
to conceal it.” 

“ How could you guess so exactly, Ellen ? ” hastily answered 
Emmeline, forgetting, in her surprise at her cousin’s penetration, 
that she betrayed herself. 

“ Because I should have felt the same,” said Ellen, simply. 

“Then I must have explained myself very badly, my dear 
children, or you must have both misunderstood me. I did not 
mean you to neglect such an enjoyment as poetry, but only to 
keep it in its proper sphere, and not allow it to take the place 
of resources, equally intellectual, but which have and may still 
cost you more patience and labor. Poetry is a dangerous gift, 
my dear child; but as long as you bring it to the common trea¬ 
sury of Home, and regard it merely as a recreation, only to be 
enjoyed when less attractive duties and studies are completed, 
you have my full permission to cultivate — and try, by the study 
of our best authors, and whatever other help I can obtain for 
you, to improve yourself in it. No talent that is lent us should 
be thrown aside, my Emmeline; our only care must be, not — 
by loving and pursuing it too intensely — to abuse it; but I 
must not lecture you any longer, or Percy’s patience will fail; 
I see he has placed Miss Ilarcourt already at the piano, and 
Edward and Caroline are ready for their waltz.” 


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375 


“And so I transform one Muse into another,” exclaimed 
Percy, who, in his sister’s absorbed attention, had neared her 
unobserved, and catching her round the waist, bore her to the 
upper end of the room, and a minute afterward she was enjoy¬ 
ing her waltz, with as much childish glee, as if neither poetry 
nor reflection could have any thing to do with her. 

“ Why is poetry a dangerous gift, dear aunt ? ” inquired Ellen, 
who had listened earnestly to all Mrs. Hamilton had said. 

“ Because, my love, it is very apt to excite and encourage an 
over-excess of feeling; gives a habit of seeing things other than 
they really are, and engenders a species of romantic enthusiasm, 
most dangerous to the young, especially of our sex, whose feel¬ 
ings generally require control and repression, even when not 
joined to poetry. To a well-regulated mind and temper, the 
danger is not of the same serious kind as to the irregulated, but 
merely consists in the powerful temptation it too often presents 
to neglect duties and employments of more consequence, for its 
indulgence. There is a species of fascination in the composition 
of even the most inferior poetry, which urges its pursuits, as giv¬ 
ing so little trouble, compared to the perseverance necessary for 
music and drawing, and such a vast amount of pleasure, that it 
is difficult to withdraw from it. This is still more strongly the 
case when the young first become conscious of the gift, as Em¬ 
meline is now. As she gets older, and her taste improves, she 
will not be satisfied with her efforts, unless they are very supe¬ 
rior to the present, and the trouble she will take in correcting 
and improving, will remove a great deal of the too dangerous 
fascination attending it now ; still I am not anxious, while she 
retains her confidence in my affection and experience, and will 
so control the enjoyment, as not to permit its interference with 
her other more serious employments.” 

Ellen listened eagerly, and they continued conversing on 
many similar topics of interest and improvement, till the prayer 
bell rang, and startled her into the recollection that she had 
always retired nearly an hour before, and so had avoided enter¬ 
ing the library, which she still quite shrunk from. Percy stop¬ 
ped his dance, which he had converted from a waltz into a most 
inspiring gallopade, the last importation, he declared, from Al- 
mack’s ; Miss Harcourt closed the piano ; and Herbert paused 
in his conversation with his father. Nothing like gloom ever 
marked the signal for the hour of devotion, but lighter pleasures 
always ceased a few minutes before, that they might better 
realize the more serious thought and service. 

Mrs. Hamilton had never ceased to regret the disgrace she 


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had inflicted on Ellen, in not permitting her to retain her own 
place with the family, at least in the hours of devotion, for it 
seemed more difficult to remove that impression than any of her 
other trials. Returning her niece’s startled look with one of 
the sincerest affection, she said — 

“ You will remain with us to-night, my dear Ellen, will you 
not ? ” 

“ If you wish it, aunt.” 

“ I do wish it, dearest, most earnestly. It is so long since I 
have had the happiness of seeing all my children round me in 
this solemn hour, and till you join us, I can not feel quite sure 
that you have indeed forgiven an act of severity, which, could 
I but have suspected the truth, I should never have inflicted.” 

“ Forgiven! — you ! ” repeated Ellen, in utter astonishment, 
but rising instantly. “ Aunt Emmeline, dear aunt Emmeline, 
pray, do not speak so; why did you not tell me your wish 
before ? I would have conquered my own disinclination to enter 
the library, weeks ago ; indeed, indeed, it only seemed associated 
with my own guilt and misery.” 

Mrs. Hamilton drew her arm fondly in hers, refusing for her 
the aid of either of the young men, who had all hastened toward 
her, and led her herself to the library, and to her usual place 
beside Emmeline. Many an eager but respectful look of affec¬ 
tionate admiration was directed toward her by the assembled 
household, the greater part of whom had not seen her since the 
night of Edward’s confession; and the alteration in her appear¬ 
ance, the universal sympathy which her dangerous illness and 
its cause had called forth, even in the humblest and most igno¬ 
rant — for it is the heart , not the mind , which is required for the 
comprehension of self-devotion — her very youth seeming to in¬ 
crease its magnitude, had inspired such a feeling of love, that 
could she have known it, would have prevented that painful 
sensation of shyness. 

Many, many thoughts thronged her mind, as her uncle’s im¬ 
pressive voice fell on her ear; thoughts which, though they pre¬ 
vented her following the words of the prayers, and caused the 
tears, spite of every effort, to stream through her slender fingers, 
yet turned into thankfulness and praise, ere the service ceased, 
that, fiery as the ordeal had been, she could still recognize a 
hand of love, and bless God, not only for the detection of her 
involuntary sin, but for every pang she had endured. 

The next day was Sunday, bringing with it all sorts of quiet, 
sober pleasures of its own, only alloyed by the thought that it 
was the last day of Percy’s and Herbert’s visit. The following 


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morning they started for Oxford, Mr. Hamilton and Edward 
intending to accompany them part of the way, and then to pro¬ 
ceed to Ashburton, where the former had business, and then 
make a little tour through Plymouth home. The next day was 
so beautifully fine and genial, that Emmeline declared it would do 
Ellen the greatest possible good to go with her a few miles out 
of the park, to see a waterfall she had lately discovered, and 
which she had been longing for Ellen to see, as Caroline would 
not admire it as much as it deserved. Miss Harcourt accom¬ 
panied them, and on their return, its beauties were described to 
Mrs. Hamilton in the most animating strain; Emmeline declar¬ 
ing the air was more deliciously fresh, the trees more green, the 
sky more brilliantly blue, than they had ever been before; and 
that the very sound of the water, as it dashed down a black 
rock, and threw up spray, which the rays of the sun rendered 
so beautifully iridescent, as to seem like a succession of rain¬ 
bows, was a whole volume of poetry in itself. 

“And what extraordinary vision do you think that silly cousin 
of mine chose to fancy she saw coming down the Ashburton 
road, mamma? Actually the apparitions of papa and Edward. 
She will persist in the fancy. Miss Harcourt and I could only 
see two men on horseback, at too great a distance for any iden¬ 
tity to be recognized — but it must be their wraiths, if it be, for 
they had no idea of coming home to-day.” 

“ I am sure I was not mistaken, Emmeline,” said Ellen 
(whom her aunt now observed looked agitated and flushed); 
“and they were riding so fast, something very pressing must 
have recalled them.” 

“And you are frightening yourself at shadows, my dear! but 
indeed I think you must be mistaken, for your uncle told me, 
he should be particularly engaged to-day,” said Mrs. Hamilton. 

“ She is not mistaken, though,” exclaimed Caroline, who was 
standing at one of the windows; “ for here they both are, true 
enough, and riding quite fast down the avenue. However, the 
mystery will soon be solved.” 

Mr. Hamilton and Edward entered almost immediately after¬ 
ward, the latter evidently very much agitated, the former so 
tranquil and cheerful that the momentary anxiety of his wife 
was calmed directly. He laughed at their bewilderment, and 
said that an important letter had reached him at Ashburton, 
summoning him to Plymouth, and so he thought he would just 
see how all was going on at Oakwood first. This was not at 
all a satisfactory reason from Mr. Hamilton. Edward evidently 
tried to answer Ellen’s inquiries quietly, but he could not, and 


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exclaiming, “ You tell her, my dear uncle! I cannot,” ran out 
of the room. Mr. Hamilton instantly changed his jesting man¬ 
ner, so far as* quietly and affectionately to seat his niece beside 
him, and tell her, cautiously and kindly, the real cause of their 
unexpected return. Orders had been sent to the Sea Queen, 
to sail much sooner than was expected, and therefore he had 
deferred his business, and returned with Edward directly. 

“ It is a trial, my dear Ellen, a very hard one just now, under 
all circumstances; but I am sure you will bear it with fortitude, 
for Edward’s sake. The only drawback to his happiness in 
being again permitted to follow his profession, is the thought 
of the trial, it will be to you.” 

“ But when must we part ? When must he leave Oakwood ? ” 
was all poor Ellen could ask; but in such a tone of quiet sor¬ 
row, her uncle could not for the moment reply. 

“ The Sea Queen leaves Plymouth, wind permitting, the end 
of the week, but — Edward must be on board to-morrow.” 

A low cry escaped involuntarily from Ellen’s lips, as she 
buried her face on the cushion of the couch where she was sit¬ 
ting, and an exclamation of surprise and regret broke from all. 
Mrs. Hamilton felt it almost as much as Ellen, from not only 
her own unspoken anxiety, as to whether indeed his home in¬ 
fluence would save him from temptation in future, but that she 
could enter into every thought and feeling which in Ellen must 
so aggravate the actual parting — always a sorrow in itself. 
After a few minutes Ellen raised her head, and, though her 
cheek was perfectly colorless, every tear was checked. 

“ Tell Edward he need not fear my weakness, dear Emme¬ 
line,” she said, trying hard to speak quite calmly. “ Only beg 
him to come to me, that we may spend the little time we have 
together; I will be as cheerful as himself.” And, effort as it 
was, she kept her word; so controlling sorrow, to enter into his 
naturally glad anticipations, that her brother felt as if he could 
not love, nor venerate her enough. 

He was obliged to leave Oakwood (accompanied by his uncle) 
so early the next morning that all his preparations had to be 
completed by that night. Ellis’s activity, though she could not 
endure the idea of his going, speedily and satisfactorily settled 
that matter. Robert Langford, who had only regained his 
natural light-heartedness since Ellen had taken her usual place 
in the family, always declaring his carelessness had been the 
origin of all her misery, was another so active in his service, 
that Edward had only to give a hint of any thing he wanted, 
even if it could only be procured at some distance, and it was 
instantly obtained. 


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The hours wore on, the evening devotions were concluded, 
but still the family lingered in the library: there seemed so many 
things to say, for Mr. Hamilton and Miss Iiarcourt would not 
let the conversation flag, and Edward would talk and laugh, as 
if he were only going from home for a few days. Midnight 
chimed, but still Mrs. Hamilton felt as if she could not give the 
signal for separation: but when one struck, there was a general 
start, and an unanimous declaration it could not be so late. 

“ 1 assure you it is,” Mrs. Hamilton cheerfully said; “ and 
poor Edward will get no sleep, if we do not separate at once. 
He must certainly send you a box of artificial roses, for this 
unusual dissipation will bear all the natural ones away. Ellen, 
love, I must be cruel enough to resist that pleading look; re¬ 
member, your full strength has not yet returned.” 

She spoke kindly, but firmly, and there was a general move. 
Edward, laughingly, promised to send his cousins the very best 
box of rouge he could procure at Plymouth, and wished them 
good night as gayly as if they should meet as usual the next 
morning. Once only his voice faltered — “ Ellen, love, good 
night! My own sister, God in Heaven bless you ! ” were all 
he said the last sentence escaping as if involuntarily, as if he 
had merely meant to say good night; and for more than a minute 
the brother and sister were clasped in each other’s arms. There 
were tears in Mrs. Hamilton’s eyes, and her husband’s were 
most unwontedly dim, for words were not needed to reveal to 
them the trial of that moment to those two young hearts. To 
Ellen’s especially, for her lot was woman’s — to endure until 
time should prove the reality of Edward’s resolution, and mark 
him indeed the noble character his disposition so fondly pro¬ 
mised. His was active service, the banishment of thought by 
deed. Breaking from her brother, and not daring to address 
either her aunt or uncle, lest her control should fail her too soon, 
Ellen hastened from the room. 

“ Go to her, aunt Emmeline ; oh, tell her I will never, never 
cause her to suffer again! ” implored Edward, as soon as he 
could speak, and clasping his aunt’s hand. “ She has been 
struggling with herself the whole evening for my sake, and she 
will suffer for it to-morrow, unless she give it vent, and she will 
weep less painfully if you speak of comfort.” 

“ She will be better alone a little while, my dear boy; young 
as she is, she knows where to seek and find comfort, and her 
tears would flow more freely, conscious only of the presence 
and healing of her God. I shall not part from you now. Ellis 
wanted me for some directions about your things, and I will 
come to you in your room afterward.” 


380 


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Mrs. Hamilton knew the human heart well. When she went 
to Ellen, the paroxysm of natural sorrow had had vent, and her 
sympathy, her earnestly expressed conviction that the trial 
of beholding error and remorse in one so beloved would not 
occur again, could bring comfort. The tears indeed might still 
have flowed the faster, perhaps, at the voice of kindness, but 
there was healing in them ; and when her aunt left her to go to 
Edward, she sent him a fond message that she was better, and 
in a few days would be happy, quite happy for his sake. 

It was late before Mrs. Hamilton quitted her nephew. We 
will not repeat all that passed between them, all that that fond 
watchful relative so earnestly, so appealingly said. Not much 
in actual words of counsel had she ever before addressed to 
him, feeling that that duty was better performed by Mr. How¬ 
ard and his uncle. She had simply tried to influence him by 
the power of love, of forbearance, of sympathy with his re¬ 
morse, and pity for his errors. In the wretchedness, the fearful 
anxiety, Ellen’s danger and painful illness had occasioned her¬ 
self individually, she had never spoken, or even let fall a sen¬ 
tence which could reproach him as the cause of all; and, there¬ 
fore, now that she did give her anxious affection words, they 
were so spoken, that her nephew never forget them. 

“ I feel now,” he had said, near the conclusion of their inter¬ 
view, “ as if nothing could tempt me to err again ; but oh, aunt 
Emmeline, so I thought when I left home before; and its influ¬ 
ences all left me as if they had never been. It may be so again 
and — and — are there not such doomed wretches, making all 
they love best most miserable ? ” 

“ Not, indeed, if they will take their home influences with 
them, my beloved boy. They deserted you before because, by 
the insidious sentiments of a most unhappy man, your religion 
was shaken, and you flung aside with scorn and misbelief the 
only safety for the young — God’s most Holy Word. The in¬ 
fluences of your home are based on that alone, my Edward. 
They appear perhaps to the casual observer as only love, in¬ 
dulgence, peace, and the joy springing from innocent and happy 
hearts ; but these are mere flowers springing from one immortal 
root. In God’s Word alone is our safety, there alone our 
strength and our joy; and that may be yours still, my boy, 
though far away from us, and in a little world with interests 
and temptations of its own. Take this little Bible ; it has been 
my constant companion for eighteen years, and to none but to 
yourself would I part with it. If you fear your better feelings 
failing, read it, be guided by it, if at first only for the sake of 


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those you love; I do not fear, but that very soon you will do so 
for its own sake. It bears a name within it which I think will 
ever keep it sacred in your care, as it has been in mine.” 

Edward opened it eagerly, “Charles Manvers!” he ex¬ 
claimed ; “ My own sailor-uncle, whose memory you have so 
taught me to love. It is indeed a spell, dear aunt, and you 
shall never regret a gift so precious. But how came it yours ?” 

“ came to me just before starting for his last trip, entreat¬ 
ing me to exchange Bibles with him, that in our most serious 
moments we might think of each other. It was such an un¬ 
usually serious speech for him, that it seemed to thrill me with 
a vague foreboding, which was only too soon realized. I never 
saw him again ; and that little book indeed increased in value.” 

Her voice faltered, for even yet the memory of her brother 
was so dear to her that she could never speak of him without 
emotion. Edward reiterated his eager assurance that it should 
be equally valuable to him, adding — 

“ I have often had strange fancies about uncle Charles, aunt, 
and longed for the command of a ship, to scour the coast of 
Algiers, and learn something more about the Leander. Some¬ 
how or other, I never can believe he was drowned, and yet to 
think of him as a slave, is terrible.” 

“ And not likely, my dear boy; think of the lapse of years. 
But painful as it is, we must separate, Edward; I must not 
detain you from rest and sleep any longer. Only give me one 
promise — if ever you are led into temptation and error again, 
and it may be — for our strongest resolutions sometimes fail 
us — write to me without the smallest hesitation, openly, freely; 
tell me all, and if you need aid, ask it, and I will give it; and, 
if it be possible avert your uncle’s displeasure. I have no fear 
that, in telling you this, I am weakening your resolution, but 
only to prevent one fault becoming many by concealment — 
from dread of anger, and therein the supposed impossibility of 
amendment. Remember, my beloved boy, you have a claim on 
me which no error nor fault can remove ; as, under providence, 
the preserver of my husband, I can never change the anxious 
love I bear you. You may indeed make me very miserable, 
but I know you will not; you will let me look on your noble 
deed with all the love, the admiration, it deserves. Promise 
me that, Under any difficulty or error, small or great, you will 
write to me as you would have done to your own beloved 
mother, and I shall have no fear remaining.” 

Edward did promise, but his heart was so full he could not 
restrain himself any longer, and as Mrs. Hamilton folded him 


382 


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to her heart, in a silent but tearful embrace, be wept on her 
shoulder bke a child. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE BIRTHDAY GIFT. 

Brightly and placidly, as the course of their own beautiful 
river, did the days now pass to the inmates of Oakwood. Let¬ 
ters came from Edward so frequently, so happily, that hope 
would rest calmly, joyously, even on the thought of him. He 
never let an opportunity pass, writing always to Mrs. Hamilton 
(which he had scarcely ever done before,) and inclosing his 
letters to Ellen open in hers. The tone, the frequency, were so 
changed from his last, that his family now wondered they had 
been so blind before in not perceiving that his very seeming 
liveliness was unnatural and overstrained. 

With Ellen too, Mrs. Hamilton’s anxious care was bringing 
in fair promise of success — the mistaken influences of her child¬ 
hood, and their increased effect from a morbid imagination, pro¬ 
duced from constant suffering, appearing, indeed, about to be 
wholly eradicated. Anxious to remove all sad associations 
connected with the library, Mrs. Hamilton having determined 
herself to superintend Ellen’s studies, passed long mornings in 
that ancient room with her, so delightfully, that it became as¬ 
sociated only with the noble authors whose works, or extracts 
from whom, she read and revelled in, and which filled her mind 
with such new thoughts, such expansive ideas, such calming 
and earnest truths, that she felt becoming to herself a new be¬ 
ing. Lively and thoughtless as Emmeline she could not now 
indeed become — alike as their dispositions naturally were; but 
she was more quietly, enduringly happy than she had ever re¬ 
membered herself. 

There was only one alloy, one sad thought that would intrude, 
causing a resolution, which none suspected; for, open as she had 
become, she could breathe it to none but Ellis, for she alone 
could assist her, though it required many persuasions and many 
assurances, that she never could be quite happy, unless it was 
accomplished, which could prevail on her to grant it. Ellen 
knew, felt more and more each week, that she could not rest till 
she had labored for and obtained, and returned into her aunt’s 



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383 


hands the full sum she had so involuntarily appropriated. The 
only means she could adopt demanded such a seeming intermin¬ 
able period of self-denial, patience, and perseverance, that at 
first as Ellis represented and magnified all connected with it, 
she felt as if, indeed, she could not nerve herself for the task, 
much as she desired to perform it; but prayer enabled her to 
face the idea, till it lost its most painful aspect, and three months 
after Edward’s departure she commenced the undertaking, re¬ 
solved that neither time nor difficulty should deter her from its 
accomplishment. What her plan was, and whether it succeed¬ 
ed, we may not here inform our readers. Should we be per¬ 
mitted to resume our History of the Hamilton Family, both 
will be revealed. 

Greatly to Caroline’s delight, the following October was fixed 
for them to leave Oakwood, and, after a pleasant tour, to make 
the long anticipated visit to London. There would then be 
three or four months’ quiet for her to have the benefit of mas¬ 
ters, before she was introduced, and Mrs. Hamilton fondly 
hoped, that the last year’s residence at home, fraught as it had 
been with so much of domestic trial, and displaying so many hope¬ 
ful and admirable traits in Caroline’s disposition, would have 
lessened the danger of the ordeal of admiration and gayety 
which she so dreaded for her child — whether it had or not, a 
future page will disclose. 

To Emmeline this arrangement was a source of extreme re¬ 
gret, individually, in which Ellen now quite sympathized. But 
Emmeline had never forgotten her mother’s gentle hint, that 
too great indulgence of regret or sorrow becomes selfishness, 
and she tried very hard to create some anticipation of pleasure, 
even in London. Ellen would not look to pleasure, but merely 
tried to think about—and so, when called upon, cheerfully to 
resign that which was now so intensely enjoyable — her studies 
with her aunt — and so benefit by them as to give Miss Har- 
court no trouble when she was again under her care; as she 
knew she and Emmeline must be, more than they had been 
yet, when Caroline’s introduction, and their residence in Lon¬ 
don, would take Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton so much from domestic 
pursuits and pleasures, and, even when at home, compel them 
to be so frequently engrossed with a large circle of friends, and 
all the variety of claims on their attention and time, which a 
season in London includes. 

It was again the 7th of June, and Ellen’s birthday. Accus¬ 
tomed from the time she became an inmate of Oakwood to 
regard the anniversary of her birth in the same serious light as 


384 


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Mrs. Hamilton had taught her cousins — as a clay of quiet reflec¬ 
tion, as well as of thankfulness and joy, as one that, closing and 
recommencing another year of their individual lives, taught 
them that they were becoming more and more responsible 
beings — it was not much wonder that Ellen, the whole of that 
day, should seem somewhat less cheerful than usual. She had 
indeed had many sources of thankfulness and joy during the past 
year, but a heart and mind like hers could not recall its princi¬ 
pal event without a return of sorrow. Mrs. Hamilton would 
not notice her now unusual sadness until the evening, when 
perceiving her standing engrossed in thought beside one of the 
widely-opened windows, near which Caroline was watering some 
lovely flowers on the terrace, she gently approached her, and, 
putting her arm round her, said, fondly — 

“You have thought quite seriously and quite long enough 
for to-day, my dear Ellen; I must not have any more such very 
silent meditations. That there is something to regret in the 
retrospect of the last year, I acknowledge, but you must not 
let it poison all the sources of thankfulness which it brings 
likewise.” 

“ It was not of my past conduct, I was thinking at this moment, 
aunt Emmeline — it was — ” 

“ What, love ? tell me without reserve.” 

“ What I never, never can return in the smallest degree, all 
I owe to you,” replied Ellen, with a sudden burst of emotion, 
most unusual to her controlled and gentle character ; “ I never 
can do any thing to evince how gratefully, how intensely I feel 
all the kindness, the goodness you have shown me from the first 
moment you took me to your home — an unhappy, neglected, 
ailing child, and this year more, more than ever. My own poor 
mother left me in my dangerous illness, and what have you not 
done to give me back not merely physical, but mental health ? 
Day and night you watched beside me, forgetting all the care, 
the misery, my conduct had caused you, only thinking, only 
seeking, to give me back to health and happiness. Oh, aunt 
Emmeline, your very household can evince gratitude and love, 
in the performance of their respective duties — I can do nothing, 
never can. If I only could.” 

“ Do you remember the fable of the lion and the mouse, my 
dear Ellen, and Miss Edgeworth’s still prettier story on the 
same subject ? ” replied Mrs. Hamilton, more affected than she 
chose to betray, though she drew her niece closer to her, and 
kissed her fondly. “ I hope I shall never be caught in a net, 
nor exposed to such horrors and danger as poor Madame de 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


385 


Fleury in the French Revolution; but for all that,and unlikely 
as it seems now, my dear child, you may have many an oppor¬ 
tunity to return all that you so gratefully feel you owe me. 
Do not let any such thought worry you ; but believe me, when 
I assure you that affection and confidence are the only return 
I require, united, as they are in you, with such an earnest de¬ 
sire, and such persevering efforts to become all your best friends 
can wish you.” 

She was interrupted by the entrance of Emmeline, with a 
small parcel in her hand. 

“Mamma, this has just arrived from Exeter for you; with 
an apologizing message from Mr. Bennet, saying, it should have 
been here last night, as he promised, but he could not get the 
articles from London in time. I am so very curious as to what 
it possibly can be, that I would bring it to you myself.” 

“Any other time I would punish your constant curiosity, Em¬ 
meline, by refusing to gratify it. I cannot do so now, however, 
for I should punish myself as well. I did want it most parti¬ 
cularly this morning; but I am glad it was not delayed till the 
day was quite over. Your uncle and I did not forget your 
birthday, my dear Ellen, though it seemed so.” And opening the 
parcel as she spoke, a very pretty jewel-case appeared, contain¬ 
ing the watch, cross, and all the other trinkets Ellen had placed 
in Mrs. Langford’s hand, and never had had the courage to 
inquire for, and the few her aunt had kept for her, but so 
prettily arranged and beautifully burnished, that she would 
scarcely have known them again. 

“ Did you never feel any curiosity as to the fate of your 
trinkets, my love, that you have never asked about them ? ” 

“ I knew they were in better hands than my own,” replied 
Ellen, with a quivering lip. “ I felt I had no further right to 
them, after attempting to part with them.” 

“ I know there are some very painful associations connected 
with these trinkets, my dear Ellen, and, therefore, I would not 
return them to your own care, till I could add to them a birth¬ 
day-gift,” and, lifting the upper tray, she took out a gold chain, 
and a pair of bracelets of chaste and beautiful workmanship — 
“that the sad memories of the one may be forgotten in the 
pleasant thoughts of the other. I have only one condition to 
make,” she added, in an earnest lower tone, as Ellen tried to 
speak her thanks, but could only cling to her aunt’s neck and 
weep. “ If ever again you are tempted to dispose of them, 
dearest, promise me to bring them to me, for my valuation 
first.” 


33 


386 


HOME INFLUENCE. 


“ You shall be put into fetters at once, Ellen,” said Emme¬ 
line, joyously, as her cousin gave the required promise, so 
eagerly, that it was evident, she felt how much security dwelt 
in it. “Mamma, make her put them on ; I want to see if she 
looks as interesting as Zenobia did in her golden chains.” 

“ I think you might find a prettier simile, Emmeline,” replied 
Mrs. Hamilton, smiling, as she granted her request, by throwing 
the chain round Ellen’s neck, and fastening the bracelets on 
her wrists. 

“ So I can, and so I will,” replied the lively girl, altering, 
without the smallest hesitation, the lines to suit her fancy — 


“ For thee, rash girl, no suppliant sues; 
For thee may vengeance claim her dues; 
Who, nurtured underneath our smile, 
Eepaid our cares with treacherous wile. 

Dishonoring thus thy loyal name, 
Fetters and warders thou must claim. 

The chain of gold was quick unstrung, 
Its links on that fair neck were flung; 
Then gently drew the glittering band, 
And laid the clasp on Ellen’s hand.” 


THE END. 


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